


Disreputable Proposition

by Author376



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But Only a Little Bit - Freeform, Don't Read This if That Scares You, Dwarf/Elf Lurve, Ends without a resolution!, F/M, Het, Kink Meme Fill that Got Way Out of Hand, Naughty Touching Happens, Weird Dwarven Biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:57:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/pseuds/Author376
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin courts an elf-maiden just to give Thranduil a headache and kick sand all over elven politics. PERMANENTLY DISCONTINUED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read this know that it doesn't precisely "end". It reaches a point where I am comfortable no longer writing the behemoth and letting everyone imagine the story ends the way they want it to. Thorin gets more in touch with his feelings, Thranduil gets some just deserts, and a lot of jokes are had at various peoples' expense. I MIGHT at some point come back and add more. MAYBE. However for now I do not plan to. Instead I am going to go pick at a sequel to Other Treasures to be Had. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading and putting up with me.

The battle was over, the war won, their home returned to them, and their treasure safely in their hands. If it was a little bitter, a little painful, and a sadder experience for the line of Durin it was not the tragedy it could have been. Crow was not a favored dish of the Longbeards, but Thorin had born its taste long enough to settle matters with their Hobbit.

Bilbo Baggins could account himself a friend of Dwarves with Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror first amongst them. The Arkenstone was back in his family’s hands and if part of Thorin’s soul would always rankle at Bilbo’s actions the Hobbit had at least acted in hope of peace, not treasure. Durin’s sickness still lay within his line and lived within Thorin’s own veins and he wanted no part of a grudge build on such a foundation. He was just thankful that he’d passed out of the haze of gold lust that had taken him after the battle; he remembered his grandfather’s fate all too well. The words he’d spoke in his assumed deathbed he would standby in life for however many years he had left under the mountain.

Fíli and Kíli were nearly a loss he could not have borne; a tragedy he had known he courted simply by bringing his sister-sons. It had never seemed possible, though, that he might live when they died. Should they have fallen, surely, he would already be in the halls of his fathers. One more folly of which he was guilty, when wisdom was so badly needed.

They had both nearly died standing over his riddled hide; defending their King and Uncle to the last in a manner he was still tempted to ring their necks for. Yet he’d never been prouder. He’d allow Dis to handle any neck-wringing. She’d always been a doting mother, but the women of Durin’s line were not famous for their tempers because they lacked one. The effect of her rage – and prolonged fussing – would have more effect than any words Thorin could issue in regards to their foolhardy bravery. What good did it do to have the heirs of Durin stand in one spot if they all died there? Had they learned nothing from Azanulbizar?

Probably not, Thorin reflected. What was there to learn? Dishonor would always have to be met and vengeance counted like any other debt to be repaid. He could admire the honor of their Burglar’s simpler life, but the fact remained that food and merriment would never have the shine of hoarded gold, or the glory of a linage and homeland awash in the splendor only honor and tradition could create in carved stone and true-born blood.

“If you come at me with one more pillow, Balin, I shall get out of this bed and take up that sword you think you have out of my reach.” Thorin, King Under the Mountain, grunted as his father’s advisor and friend and his wisest council entered the room carrying the seventh pillow in as many days. 

“Thranduil wishes to parlay.” Balin offered cheerfully, his expression as warm as it ever got and the strong smell of good clean soot and work about him from their peoples’ rebuilding efforts.

Dain had returned to his own kingdom, but some of his folk had remained and more of their people were coming home from the Blue Mountains. Soon the ringing of hammers in the deep would be like the fall of raindrops and not the liquid tones of harp. Thorin was greatly looking forward to that, and even more looking forward to being able to guide it from his own two feet rather than through his cousins and trusted companions from his sickbed. 

“On second thought, smother me with the pillow.” Thorin grunted and endeavored to haul himself up into a better sitting position. 

It was not an easy task. Even a dwarf’s constitution suffered when he’d taken a lance to gut and arrows to the chest, shoulders, and back. Balin, looking triumphant, stuffed the pillow behind Thorin’s shoulders and then stepped back, looking smug in his particularly fatherly way. 

“Where’s Dwalin?” Thorin settled back and glared down at the sheaf of papers the older Dwarf had passed him, clicking away at the abacus in his mind in regards to the numbers listed below. 

“We’ve got too many men on the gate and not enough down by the river. Until the aquifer is no longer befouled by dragon we need daily access and as Bard has already moved some men into the ruins of Dale and I want no trouble.”

“Started by either of us.” Thorin added after a moment. “Dwalin should remove Briggil’s son from the river-guard to prevent that, but the rest is in his hands.”

“Well, at least Briggil himself didn’t come with Dain.” Balin smiled wryly before bowing his head. “My king, Dwalin is at the gate waiting for your orders. I’ll see to this directly, but the Elves won’t wait.”

“Of course they will, their Elves, all they do is wait.” Thorin snorted and turned away, his jaw clenching in memory.

Thranduil had done nothing twice and claimed reward for it. He’d not had truck with Bard or the Laketown men who had destroyed the dragon and been destroyed by it in turn. Still, for those meager, human allies had he not shown up quickly when there was gold to be had and no dragon to defend it? Were it not for the gold of Thorin’s kingdom Thranduil and his pale arse would never have set foot on the battlefield where the Orcs and their wargs had fallen on them all…

And yet the prosperity of Erebor had not been built on the mountain’s bounty alone. Never had his people here cultivated their own food – though by Mahal they had learned in the wilderness had they not? – nor were their lands suited for it. Their prosperity was in trade and the trade with Dale was vital for that. Unfortunately Dale was yet in ruins and would be for years yet despite their Hobbit giving his share of the spoils to the Elves and Men. Laketown would be more quickly rebuilt and in the meantime crop and field would blossom if nothing else under the hands of men. His people would have other needs, though, and while Dain of the Iron Hills would trade with them there was yet a closer kingdom that remained prosperous wasn’t there?

_“I have thought like a warrior and a wanderer,”_ Thorin had admitted to himself in the dark hours of pain and doubt and suffering as the surgeons worked on his nephews and he himself hovered between life and death. _“I have acted as a conqueror and a plunderer, and done it all in the name of my people and pride just as my grandfather thought of nothing but gold in his final years. Now I must think as a king.”_

“We are not at war with the Elves.” Thorin grunted. “There’s not need to parlay. If Thranduil has something to say he can come and say it as… neighbors.”

Thorin would still be damned if he called an elf “Friend”, though.

“Very good, Sire.” Balin looked suspicious underneath his smile, even as his eyes and tone grew more somber. “I am afraid, however, that the healers had to take Kíli’s leg, though Fíli’s arm heals well now that the blood is flowing as it aught again.”

“Where?” Thorin closed his eyes and then opened them, reaching for one of the four broad stone pillars that supported the great bed in the King’s Chambers even as Balin’s hand closed over his to prevent a foolhardy attempt at standing on Thorin’s part.

“Below the knee.” Balin kept his hand firmly over his king’s. “He is awake, and in good spirits for all his injuries. He’ll await his King and Kin’s visit for a time when it won’t tax him so.”  
Thorin had choice words for the idea that he would be _taxed_ by the exertion of getting out of his sickbed when his nephew’s leg had had to be cut off without even the balm of sedation because Kíli was too weak from lost blood to risk the heavy use of healing herbs to staunch his pain, but they were stilled by Balin’s grave look.

“They worry for you, my friend.” Balin gave him a title far older and more valuable between them than rank. “While they know you rest well they allow themselves the weakness of rest. Stay in bed a few days longer, not for yourself, but to save them from the pride of youth.”  
Thorin lowered himself back to the pillows and grunted his agreement, changing the subject to other matters of the rebirth of Erebor. He still muttered underneath his breath as Balin left; the old extortionist wasn’t out of tricks yet. 

SSSSSSSSSS

Thorin felt a moment of blind understanding of the Hobbit’s actions with the symbol of his family’s rule two days later. It wasn’t a matter of thought, or even intention. Sometimes actions merely flowed. Thorin was a craftsman, he understood inspiration, he had merely never experienced its devious and controlling hand guiding his life rather than his tongs or hammer. 

Thranduil had returned Orcist to him and had the gall to apologize. Trust an elf to think pretty words and prettier excuses could ever undo what he had done to Thorin and his folk. Not merely had he turned his back on the Dragon Smaug and refused battle. No, he had refused the dwarves all aid on their flight from Erebor. They had had no offers of succor neither under the forest’s eaves nor on its trails. They had received not one blanket nor loaf from Thranduil’s mighty and ancient people. Instead they had had to skirt around the roots of the Gray Mountains and starve in the Withered Heath to the North as they followed the mountains edges. 

Not that the King of the Wood Elves had offered him anything a dwarf could so easily cast back into anyone’s teeth as an apology. He had not posed as a friend of Thorin’s fathers so long by being ignorant of their ways. So amidst the unstoppable tide of so-called eloquence came the offer only made by dwarves to each other when one had transgressed beyond all but mortal reproach in some manner that could yet be considered honorable.

Mahal spare them all from the _honor_ of Elves. 

“I offer you the pick of my treasures; chief and small, and make no claim yet on them but which is in humility offered.” Thorin sat upon the throne of his forefathers with the Arkenstone shining above him and stared at the top of Thranduil’s colorless head of hair as the elf gave him a bow that was precisely low enough for such a pronouncement made by an equal, but no lower.

As though Thorin had never seen a dwarf-child starve because of this elf’s actions.

As though he’d never heard the cries of a man eaten alive by festering burns in the heath. 

As though he believed that anything could make Thorin forget that dishonor or the vengeance he wished to have for it still. Only for the good of his people would he put it aside. Only for the good of Erebor would he not ask for the blood of this man’s kin to replace that lost by his own. So he sat there and as his mind took in the emeralds around the king’s neck and every thought of treasure passed from his vaults into Thranduil’s… inspiration hit.

He did not want to accept the elf-king’s offer. However, to turn it down would, in the long term, hurt his people and their needs _always_ must proceed his. Even to needs as dear as air and vengeance and honor…

Honor.

Thranduil had said any treasure, and amongst dwarves that offer, once made, could not be refused. Should Thorin ask for blood he would make enemies of all the Men around him for they did not share Dwarven thoughts on when gold must be put aside for greater value in vengeance. Or at least they pretended they did not share such values. Either way the damned elf thought he’d caught Thorin, didn’t he? The Dwarf in his pride would either refuse and be a churl or name some golden bauble that – while it hurt Thranduil to give up – would not hurt him mortally to part with. Not when he had all the years on earth to regain whatever it was Thorin asked for in return…

Unless Thorin asked for something reasonable, but absolutely unconscionable to an Elven heart.  
“Your generosity does you honor, Elf-King,” Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, sat upon his throne in splendid armor with a helm of gold and jewels upon his brow and smiled briefly. “I accept your offer in honor, but my home is returned to me and there is only one treasure I lack.”

Thranduil looked suspicious, but then, he was an honorless wretch not a fool.

“A wife.” Thorin let the words fall from his lips like a battle hammer upon a goblins head. 

Thranduil’s eyes widened and then narrowed in subtle but apparent confusion. To his left Dwalin stood, his expression slightly more obviously confused. To his right Balin stood and like Dwalin and his king the two companions of their quest wore priceless armor over slightly ragged clothing. Balin’s eyes, however, flickered directly from confusion to some mix of horror and disbelief.

“A… wife, King Thorin?” Thranduil’s expression said he now expected Thorin to ask for him to pull a willing female dwarf from the very stone around him, but was more wry than anything else. Thorin’s next statement fixed that.

“Long were our peoples allied before Smaug’s calamity.” Thorin sat back more comfortably upon the throne of his fathers, inspiration making his voice almost casual as he made his pronouncement final. “Of all the treasures in your kingdom surely there is an unclaimed elf-maiden who would bind our peoples together in truth?”

Balin, diplomat that he was, merely stood as still as the stone that surrounded them and looked polite. Dwalin, however, was rather red under his beard and a barely discernible shaking could be seen about his shoulders. Fíli – who had insisted he come to this meeting, if only so that he could cheer his brother with his tales of his Uncle’s undoubted temper before the Elves – however, was both younger and weaker; both in training and in current health. Which is why the young Dwarf prince of Durin’s line was giggling shamefully. 

Thranduil, ancient and powerful Elven King, was pink about the cheekbones now that his mouth had snapped shut and a fine ruby red along the tips of his pointed ears. Instead of answering Thorin’s request – for, indeed, he could not answer it except in denial and that would make a lying churl of his sorry elven ass, wouldn’t it? – he turned to look at Fíli and then cast a raised eyebrow in Thorin’s direction.

Thorin was casting about for the proper verbal slap to land upon his nephew’s non-braced and bandaged wrist when Ori – who had been watching the two brothers and had followed the two stout dwarves bearing Fíli’s litter into the throne room – cleared his throat and tenderly asked Fíli a question.

“Is it the fish again, Prince Fíli?” Ori asked, thoroughly confusing everyone present.

“Yes,” Fíli’s pause was barely noticeable as he turned – still giggling – and grasped Ori’s hand pleadingly. “They’re back again, and this one has pink shoes.”

“Forgive the prince, your Majesties,” Ori bowed low, looking thoroughly contrite. “it’s the herbs.”

“…Ah.” Thranduil cleared his throat dryly, glancing down at the blankets covering the extent of Thorin’s heir’s injuries.

Thorin just gestured to the dwarves holding the litter handles – all of whom were manfully suppressing their own mirth – and smiled at Thranduil, awaiting his answer. Thranduil smiled tensely back his chin held high in challenge.

“Of course, King Under the Mountain.” Thranduil, King of the Wood Elves born of Sindarin elves, looked Thorin directly in his dark eyes and proceeded to do something seldom done by the pointy eared bastards.

He called the bluff of a dwarf.

“A bride amongst my people can be found for you in great honor, if that is the treasure you wish to name from us.”

Thorin had no desire for a wife, his heirs were his nephews and he could be no prouder of them. To take an Elven wife was unthinkable. Because for all their otherworldly beauty, that beauty was like the beauty of a statue or a work in glass; something you put upon a pedestal and treasure, not something you bed. Children could probably not even be begotten between them their differences all considered. Quite beyond that Thorin had no desire to see nor hear an elf again, and to have one constantly underfoot was unthinkable.

Thranduil knew this and was sure that Thorin was only toying with him and embarrassing him. For no matter how many dwarves had become enamored over elven beauty – a small number, but a reality nonetheless over the long ages of the world – it had always been mocked as a jest. Something to be treated by the elves like a favored dog trailing about the skirts of a great lady, but never to be taken seriously. No dwarf would ever wed into the elven-kin. 

Peace of mind and body and house was a sweet thing, Thorin knew, and he craved it as he craved his ancestral home and treasure… but _vengeance_ had without cost? Vengeance that would ring not only in his own lifetime but throughout the ages as long as whichever elven witch was chosen lasted with the indignity of a marriage to any dwarf – let alone a dynastic one arranged by her lord to an heir or Durin! – hung around her neck like a lead weight?

“I desire nothing more, Your Majesty.” Thorin son of Thrain smiled back peacefully at the now gray-hued elf-lord before him and a passing phrase once said by their burglar skittered into his memory.

Perhaps the hobbit was right. _Killing them with kindness,_ had a certain, almost, _dwarven_ ring to it, didn’t it?

SSSSSSSSS

Thranduil had been alive for ages of Men. He’d faced hordes of Orcs, Goblins, and darker _older_ creatures of evil. He had seen the wonders of the world both dark and fair. Despite all this he could honestly say he had never faced quite this much combined horror and loathing in a single place in his life. 

The outrage was another level of horrible entirely.

Elves, in all their races, were a slow-growing population. Unlike the Dwarves this was not due to any strange imbalances of gender or culturally ingrained petty jealousies. Elves simply were a race where time was never of the essence, save for the intrusion of evil times upon their race’s long lives. There was no need to rush into decisions of family and children. So courtship was a long process and children came slowly and with thought; every one cherished for the precious and _wanted_ treasure that they were.

Treasure.

Thranduil regretted calling that thrice-damned Dwarf’s bluff in many ways, but at least he still sincerely believed it _was_ a bluff. That it was nothing more than a put-upon show to humiliate Thranduil and his people. What better way to do that than to turn a political dynastic match – something that the Elves had not done in two ages of Men and never with the unholy badgers who were forever plaguing Middle Earth with their greed! – into some kind of ridiculous _cattle_ auction where the prizes were forced to audition for their slaughter!

Not that that was his simile. Oh, no, that linguistic achievement of comparison had been crafted by one of the seventeen angry Elf-Maidens standing before him right now in his throne room, glaring at him like the very fires of Orodruin, and with just as much evil intent.

“My people, know that I would never consider asking this were it not for the manipulative actions of a petty Dwarven king.” Thranduil held his hands up, palm out, in a gesture of peace and helplessness he hadn’t made since the last time he’d severely annoyed his beloved wife in times painfully lost to him now. “I offered to address wrongs done by me to Erebor – wrongs done only to save you from the wrath of Smaug, but wrongs done nonetheless – in Dwarven manner in great generosity, and Thorin son of Thrain took advantage of that to bend this offer in the direction of humiliation rather than reconciliation.”

Elves were far too polite to yell over one another in anger. They certainly wouldn’t do so before their king. They definitely wouldn’t do so when the gathering was entirely that of young elven maidens of marriageable age. Unfortunately even “young” elf maidens were not young to the world and no elf was denied any education they could wish.

“Untrue, my King,” Tari Felagund – a pure Silvan elf whose people were always of the wood and the hills – replied smartly, “as long as you have known the dwarves of old surely you knew that in matters such as this calamity they almost always ask for a merging of families. Blood is the only thing more sacred to them than the glittering things they so often betray us for.”  
“Yes,” Merewen – Tari’s twin sister – sighed more calmly and then reached down to smooth her hands nervously over the cloth of her gown. “but we both know that never would they dream of making such a claim on _us_.”

“Or they would not have even half an age ago.” Finduilas Telrúnya shook her head of autumn brown hair and let out a frustrated breath. “The world never improves with time and the foolishness of the lesser races always serves to cause us harm when we endeavor to aide them. I _still_ support our King’s first decision. Aiding the Dwarves would have done no-one any good, and what good did aiding them against the Goblins do now?”

“A resounding number of dead goblins?” Séreméla Séregon offered quietly, and then shook her own head of dark golden hair. “There is no way to turn the course of this river, my friends, but I bid you to remember that it is hardly a lost cause. Whether this is an offer in punishment and jest or an offer in sincerity from the Dwarven king, Thrain’s son is yet a _dwarf_ , and they are yet the most particular of all the races in choosing their mate as well as the most peculiar.”

Thranduil blessed Séreméla’s wisdom and quiet practicality. The oldest of the assembled maidens – and none, of course, were very young by his people’s standards – was the only one who had had any real association with dwarves. A jeweler by trade Séreméla had often been to the Kingdom Under the Mountain during the rule of Thror and was familiar with Dwarven customs. 

“What are you suggesting, Séreméla?” Another Elf-Maiden asked. 

“Simply that we remember the ways of Dwarves.” Séreméla smiled. “Their courtships are uncouth by our standards, yes, but they are traditions of the highest value to Mahal’s children. There will be exchanges of gift and demonstrations of skills and song all to be gotten through before we are selected, and if we do not meet his standards, well, Thorin Oakenshild shall _not_ select us. To do so would go against his very nature for by Dwarf standards our comeliness is that of a work of art not a being of flesh, and to devalue our art is to devalue ourselves.”

“And,” Thranduil smiled as Séreméla outlined his plan for him without him having to say a word or subject it to criticism directed at himself rather than the plan itself. “of course one need only do this by working against the values of _dwarves_ , you understand, and not Elven-kind?”

The general air of danger hovering over the gathering quieted and Thranduil commended himself for speaking to Séreméla before the gathering and getting both her assistance and the venerable maiden’s input on the situation. Now he would speak to the parents of those who had such, and deliver his final words of consolation.

“And, of course, I would never require any maiden being courted in sincerity by another of my people to put herself forward.” Thranduil added, cutting the number of his people involved in this issue by more than half. “Only those with no connection will be asked, and only after I have spoken with your close kin.” 

With a few more words Thranduil gave his subjects permission to leave him and Séreméla – who was herself being courted and thus exempt – permission to assist the others in their efforts to make themselves blessedly unattractive marriage prospects for any self-respecting dwarf.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl was trying with all her might to ignore Merewen and Tari and the frantic patter of their whispering. Isíl was not of their blood, nor was any close-kin to be found of hers in the Greenwood. Isíl herself had been born in the Gray Havens and was distant kin through her father to Ciridan who was lord there. Her mother was born in Lothlorien, and connected to the Greenwood through her own father’s mother. 

On a journey to visit her mother’s kin in Lothlorien they had been beset by orcs. Isíl and another elf-child who were placed upon her mother’s horse and sent away at a gallop had been the only survivors of the encounter. From that point in her eighth year of life Isíl had dwelt with her grandmother in Lothlorien, but the loss of her children to the sea or to battle had weighed heavily on the lady and Isíl’s grandmother had gone to the Havens to make the journey over the sea twenty years before. 

Yearning for close-kin despite the kindness of the Lady Galadriel and the beauty of Lothlorien Isíl had gone to the Greenwood to where her mother’s sister dwelt. Upon arriving, however, she found that a darkness had come to Greenwood and her Aunt had finally gone over to sea to be reunited with the husband she had lost an age ago in the battle against the Enemy. 

Elven children were always loved, no matter what their parentage, so though Isíl had been approaching her hundredth birthday and by all appearances was adult, she was made warmly welcome amongst yet another kingdom held by her people. Isíl could not complain about this. Even with the darkness the Greenwood’s beauty and quiet were welcoming and Isíl found her talents more appreciated and recognized here than amongst the weavers of Lorien.

Which was understandable for though Isíl was accounted most talented she was yet young and Lorien produced the greatest woven materials of the age. Even the lady herself had said Isíl had the makings of a great master of fabric-craft, and all she wanted was a thousand years to polish skills already centuries ahead of her age-mates.

All of which were reasons why Isíl was somewhat unaware of what was going on. At one year past one hundred she was only viewed as technically old enough to wed, and certainly not worldly enough to be put forth in suggestion to the King Under the Mountain in what was now being called The Great Marriage Debacle behind closed doors and away from sharp royal ears. 

Instead of being invited to the throne room to hear what Thranduil had to say to the others she had been out with her spindle catching the morning mists off the river and twist them into threads. For as her hands had been guided by the Lady of Lorien herself Isíl’s loom could be threaded with things a bit less _worldly_ then the looms of Greenwood were usually threaded with. 

“Are we giving Throne-Gifts to the Dwarven king, then?” Isíl finally asked as she maneuvered the last strand of nearly invisible silvery-gray thread onto the smallest of her six looms and set aside the misty-gray hank of filament she’d spent the morning creating. 

Isíl’s mother had been of normal elven age to wed at one-hundred-and-fifty years of men. Her father, however, had gone ages alone; having never found his heart-match in the years of youth when most Elves discovered theirs. Being a child of the First Age Isíl’s father had told her many stories of the times when Elves and Dwarves were friends and so she was not entirely ignorant of their ways, for all that she’d never laid eyes on a dwarf. She’d been busy weaving when the new king’s party were taken prisoner and it had seemed rude to go down to the dungeons just to stare at them like poor animals trapped in the cages some Men kept for the novelty they seemed to find in wild things being held prisoner…

Still, it was traditional for gifts to be sent by all allies to a Dwarven king when he assumed the throne. Given what she had heard of the great bad blood between Thranduil and the line of Durin, well, it seemed as if they would have to be very nice gifts. It made sense that Thranduil – as fond as he was of treasure – might endeavor to spread the expense a bit by asking all his people to contribute. 

“Oh, Isíl,” Tari – who was a mere two-hundred herself – looked up from her perch on the weaving stool – for Tari and Merewen were both solid thread-smiths for all they were not actually doing any work at the moment – and shook her head. “be _glad_ you are too young to be drawn into this nonsense and concern.”

“I am of age, Tari.” Isíl didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. “Please remember that when sitting in the weaving room I am in charge of and not doing your duties.”

Tari gave her the same look she gave Isíl when she brought her embroidery to after dinner music and Isíl was about to further elaborate on just why there was no shame in actually getting things done in a timely manner when Merewen – who was much older and wiser than her sister – smiled and shook her head.

“What Tari means to say is be glad that the King is well aware of sharp eyes cast in your direction, Isíl.” Merewen’s broad smile turned a touch wistful. “and sees no reason to distract you from your craft when we both know how particular a woman of your skill would be about your trousseau.”

The sour taste that put in Isíl’s mouth was enough to turn her back to the small table loom she’d been setting up to fill the shuttle. Whether that had been Merewen’s plan or Merewen had genuinely just wanted to twit her about something both the sisters considered a delightful development Isíl didn’t know. Either way their conversation shortly resolved itself and they left the weaving room.

Leaving Isíl alone with her concerns.

Isíl gave up on thoughts of getting a length of veil-cloth done for the next rider out to take to Lothlorien with the letters she wished to send. Instead she went to the shelf-lined room off of her own quarters where she stored the fabric she wove that she had yet to give in payment or trade or gift to another of Thranduil’s kingdom. Taking instead a great length of white lace meshed with bits of crystal she carefully wrapped the fabric in muslin and oiled leather and tucked her letters to the Lady inside. She’d been saving the lace for herself, but there was little Isíl had that could be called good enough to send to the Lady of Lorien at any one time. 

Next she chose a length of gray velvet and another of warm brown wool to go to the Gray Havens with the polite yearly letter she sent to Ciridan there to tell him of her happiness on Middle Earth. Even distant kin required news of their young elves and their doings and it was best not to wait and make them ask for it.

After wrapping that package and scroll as well she stared long at the shelves around her and thought of Tari’s words of her youth. Isíl was young, yes, but it rankled to be continually lumped in with the few children of the wood and not acknowledged as even a fledgling adult. It rankled even farther that they did this at the same time as making intimations about a courtship that not only didn’t exist, but that Isíl was at best reluctant to engage in and at worst absolutely lacking any desire in. Fortunately it was _not_ an official courtship yet, and no intentions had been declared that forced her to refuse him. She had no desire to hurt anyone’s feelings…

Her work was good enough for the great of Elven-kind, surely it would make a princely gift for a Dwarven King? 

On impulse Isíl reached past the paler colors favored by the elves of the Greenwood and brushed aside the soft greens and grays and browns that drifted into the shadows beneath the trees. There bolts of dark, rich blues and blacks and reds and purples dwelt. Not colors often favored by Thranduil’s folk, but ones Isíl enjoyed the making of, the bolts had lingered in her closet for a long while, and while the King Under the Mountain had found gold and jewels in hoard she doubted any of the rich fabrics worn by his kin had survived the years of rot and decay Smaug had brought on the Lonely Mountain.

She was most certainly old enough to concern herself with honorable gift-giving, and it wasn’t like she would put royalty in anything that came off Tari’s loom…

SSSSSSSSSSS

“Flowers,” Dwalin grinned gleefully. “At least four of ‘em will’uv sent flowers.”

“How much shall I put down for you on at least four sets of flowers, then?” Balin asked his brother cheerfully as eight of Thorin Oakenshield’s twelve loyal dwarven companions sat around the King’s private table breaking their fast. 

“Ah, the same as I put on the Hobbit not coming.” Dwaling scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I might as well make my money back now, huh?”

“Very well, and Fíli?” Balin asked cheerfully.

Fíli and Kíli were both, finally, out of their bed and on their feet. Or, in Fíli’s case he was moving about carefully, mindful of his still-bound arm and his knitting ribs. Kíli was yet in a litter, but now able to sit up if moved by gentle hands to a comfortable chair. The stump on the end of his leg was a disturbing sight for the dwarves but already Thorin’s private forge had rung with the sound of his hammer. The first project the King Under the Mountain put his tongs and fire to was the making of a proper prosthetic for his nephew, and though it was not done yet the knowledge that it was simply waiting for him to heal enough to use had cheered Kíli greatly.

“Flutes?” Fíli looked at his brother. “And those sad-stringed Elven harps.”

Kíli frowned and shook his head.

“You take the flutes and harps – but only the sort Thorin wouldn’t play.” Kíli allowed and sat back. “I’m saying at least one sends fruit.”

“ _Fruit?_ ” Nori, Ori, and Dori looked offended.

“I saw one of Elrond’s sons handing that harp playing elf-maid a basket of fruit.” Sharp-eyed Kíli defended his bet. “She _giggled_.”

Shaking his head at the oddity of elves Balin put down the others’ bets and was trying to coax a bit more laxity in how much they’d put down when their King entered the room and all – save Kíli who bowed his head and shoulders – stood as Thorin arrived. Thorin waved them down and graced them with a small, sharp smile.

“How go the wagers?” Thorin had been in an unusually good mood since he’d twisted   
Thranduil’s arm into playing the farce for the Lonely Mountain’s collective amusement.

“Very well.” Balin greeted him cheerfully. “Care to join us?” 

“No.” Thorin replied, sitting at the head of the table and accepting the full plate passed to him by Bofur, the only dwarf not wagering on the process. “Balin, how goes the…”

And Thorin turned conversation to actual matters of importance. He was content that his revenge had so pleased the humor of his people. He’d spent a moment or two worrying that the Dwarf-Maidens would take deep offense, but he need not worry. His long affection for vengeance and his lack of a wife at this age had already taken away any delusions of marriage from those maidens who might have fancied him once upon a day, long ago in the mountains. No-one desired such from him now and the idea of bending the Elves to their will and culture was pleasing to all dwarves. 

Balin had been the most concerned. He’d been happily wed and fathered sons before the coming of Smaug and he’d worried about his King’s choice. Marriage was never to be taken lightly.  
Thorin had calmed his nerves, for what Dwarf wouldn’t wed vengeance and be satisfied with the match if it brought an enemy down and humbled them? For that is what Thorin wanted and had wanted more than anything but his ancestral home and the rights of his people. He’d wanted to see the Elves and their proud ancient race learn the humility he’d been forced into accepting – if never displaying – in those aimless years of wandering through wilds and the towns of Men. _This_ folly – though folly it was – would give that to him, and that pleased him more than any other marriage he might have undertaken. 

The meal went on and Thorin waved the others away when they moved to Kíli’s side. Neither he nor Fíli were fully healed, but they were Kíli’s blood. Until Dis arrived and his sister took Kíli’s health and care into her own capable hands Thorin would see that both his nephews recovered himself. Durin’s line would endure under their own power, and if both he and Fíli were sweating lightly when they settled Kíli back on his litter, well, that was of no-one’s concern but theirs. 

The gifting ceremony was much as Thorin had thought it would be; barely within the lines drawn by Dwarven tradition as acceptable and wholly outside of the lines of what was expected nonetheless. Two brightly armed Elven Warriors – two whose swords had only come to defend the Lonely Mountain after Smaug was safely dead – brought in a freshly carved wooden litter decorated with flowers and ivy. 

Bows were exchanged and a long-winded letter was produced and read giving Thrandruil’s greeting and reviewing the honorable agreement they’d reached before. Thorin could picture Thranduil’s expression as he wrote the hated thing right now, and it was an amusing thing. The guards laid out eight packages on the ground before them, looking slightly confused as they produced the eighth. Thorin didn’t blame them; the eighth package was noticeably different in form and weight.

Four of the boxes were small and contained verses of poetry composed by his prospective brides. Each of these boxes also contained flowers and Thorin could already heard Dwalin and Balin’s upcoming argument about whether the flowers were garnish or gift and what that meant to the money about to change hands. 

One contained a flute that was too long with too widely spaced holes for Dwarven fingers to use though it was of fine make and the vines encircling the wood were real silver. Another, larger box, contained fruit of all of the ridiculous, borderline insulting things to give as a courtship gift – Thorin would have to keep that elf-maiden in mind as a choice; she’d be more horrified than the others and that would provoke more horror on the Elves’ parts – and the rest contained a selection of books. All were beautifully bound and all were contained in boxes that were at least respectfully precious given his rank.

Save for the last. This was contained not in a box, but a small trunk or casket of dark wood lovingly polished. The hinges were plain steel, though, and though worked well were nothing special. Just to make the Elves sweat Thorin raised his eyes at this last gift as it was set before him. Unlike the others it was too large for him to sit it upon his lap and open it on the throne so he stepped down to flip the top open and see what was within this less-than-respectful box even as he thought about how he could make intimations about the lack of respect to Thranduil later.  
“Well, that’s practical.” Dwalin’s mutter could barely be heard off to the side, and only because the tone of surprise in it carried well underground.

Thorin ran his fingers over the rich, night-sky blue velvet sitting atop a carefully folded stack of equally rich fabrics, many edged with rich embroidery, at least one being in a damask with golden threads, and watched the light from the lanterns above hit the fabric. In the shadows it was black, but at the edges and ridges where light hit it the fabric glowed a silvery blue. He was a worker in steel, a man whose best creations were weapons of war, but that didn’t mean that it was always so. His early years had been spent clothed in the finest cloth gold could buy and it often came off the looms of the Elves.

Thorin was a dwarven Prince with a Dwarf’s eye for quality and this was definitely better than the cloaks and tunics of his youth. He was actually forced to silently admit that this _was_ an appropriate gift and was about to comment on it in order to irk the two Elves standing tall and thin in front of him when he looked up and caught the tiny flicker of consternation that passed between the fine gray and green eyes of the two Elven warriors.

“I am pleased by all the gifts, but this is especially fine.” Thorin smiled at the two guards. “Tell your king I would be honored to return the generosity of the maiden who sent me so appropriate a gift.”

The flicker turned to stone and both the Elves nodded; no more trace of any emotion passing over their features.

Thorin only needed to strike his hammer to a steel blank once to know if it had been properly smelted and he smiled to himself as his choice rang very true as the least pleasant he could have made for the Elves to deal with.

SSSSSSSSSSS

The problem was that Isíl had not known that in courtship the Elves of the Greenwood played hide and seek. They didn’t do that in the Gray Havens _or_ Lothlorien. So Isíl had assumed that when Thranduil’s youngest son – who was only a half-century her senior – started chasing her up trees, well, he was just being annoyingly playful. That was a common enough trait amongst elves in their youth and at times even Isíl shared it despite her reputation for being somewhat dour.

Isíl had started hiding from him out of, well, desperation. She couldn’t be outright rude to the prince, but she hadn’t felt any desire to play with him either. She loved music and good times and good company as much as any elf, but her craft was a time consuming one! Not the least because she made her own dyes and did her own meshing and embroidery for laces and such, and then there was the occasional request for rope… She was busy! It was far less time-consuming to simply hide from Legolas than to try and tell him she had no desire to go riding with him, or share a new ballad he’d learned or written, or share tales or any other mirthful thing. It wasn’t easy to tell any elf that you didn’t have the time for them, after all, when every elf knew that time was something they all had in abundance. 

Her statements that she didn’t want to indulge in every merrymaking endeavor were simply taken as a challenge. Legolas, Merewen, Tari, and many others all believed she simply needed to have more fun. They believed that the sorrows in her short life had scarred her and she must be healed through merriment. Some days Isíl desperately wanted to hit them with rocks. Not all elves were forever playing!

Now that she’d started the hiding she couldn’t stop it, though. To do so would be taken as a signal that she was ready to go from the more childish games of flirting and fun to more… serious things. Like actual courtship. Like marriage to the King’s son.

Isíl liked Legolas, who was kind and handsome and merry, but she had no desire to spend eternity being harassed because she would rather knit or weave than dance! If she wanted music so badly she’d sit and listen to it with her needles in hand and not only enjoy the music but keep her hands busy as well and enjoy both things! 

That didn’t solve her current predicament. In her arms was a large basket of freshly dyed cloth and somewhere behind her the light footfalls of an elven prince sounded on the path. Dyed, dried, and then washed thrice to keep the dye from leaching as it were. For today she’d gone down the river past its egress from the Cavern Halls of Thranduil and stretched lines across the fast-moving river so that the current could pull the extra color from the linens she’d finished the week before. Even for someone as nimble as an elf it was hard to balance on the ropes and wash and stretch all of the fabric with no other hands to help her and she was tired.

The problem is that on this path there was no good place to hide. Up a tree would do her no good for Legolas was a better climber than most even amongst Elves, and that would be the first place he looked anyway. The crook of a tree amongst the roots was no option, either, for it would dirty her just-washed cloth _and_ probably wouldn’t accommodate her and her load anyway. She was, after all, tall even amongst Elf-Maids and needed a certain amount of room to fold her legs into no matter where she was hiding.

This left her with a choice. She could stand her ground on this small walking path and let Legolas draw smiles from her and coax her into the King’s banquet hall tonight even though she had no desire to be there for long into the night listening to the music and feasting, or she could leave the basket – Legolas was sure to find and retrieve it – and take her other option for escape.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

Thranduil, King of the Greenwood, had the first headache he’d had to endure in nigh on two centuries. It was a bad one too, and compounded by genuine displeasure and worry.

“How precisely did an eighth gift make its way into the litter when I specifically said there were only seven eligible elf-maidens?” Thranduil asked his butler and watched as the man shook his head sheepishly. 

“I’ve spoken to Tari and Merewen and both agree that as she was uninformed of the actual nature of the gifts Isíl contributed hers in the belief they were Throne Gifts for Thorin son of Thrain and not… what they were. She probably added hers as the litter was being loaded; she’s very light on her feet and as good at going unnoticed as any of our people.”

“She is.” Thranduil agreed weakly, sitting back in the chair of his private study and feeling heavy hearted.

He’d long worried for his youngest – now only, though he must put aside thoughts of his sons lost in the Battle of Five armies lest the grief overtake him – son’s courtship of the orphaned girl. At first it had seemed to him as it had to many others; a perfect match. Isíl was of noble blood even if it was weaker in her veins than in some others. She was an accomplished young Elf-Maiden whose quieter nature seemed made to match with Legolas’ exuberance. He would surely bring out her natural playfulness while she would temper his occasional recklessness, so when Legolas had begun to playfully start the first stages of hinting at courtship with the orphan under Thranduil’s own guardianship he’d encouraged his son.

Of late Thranduil had grown unsure of his earlier choice’s wisdom. For though her years with them were yet short and Isíl was barely of marriageable age now there had been no sign from her that she was interested in more than play. Nor, in truth, could Thranduil say that she’d shown great interest in the play itself. To eyes more experienced than Legolas’ – for Thranduil’s indulged son seemed to enjoy the chase more the greater Isíl’s reluctance was to return his games – it was now seeming less that her actions were those of a young maid unready for marriage and more those of a motherless girl who no idea how to turn down a suit of a young elven lord of rank.

And now _this_. Of all of the elf maidens of middle earth why had Thorin Oakenshild had to choose this one to light upon. Legolas would be furious and hurt, and why should his son endure one more hurt after they had lost his brothers? Worse yet, if Thranduil could not extricate her from this without mention of bonds made or broken Legolas might claim a pre-existing bond… Which Thranduil was painfully sure would be taken as a chance by Isíl to deny such a bond existed. That itself was something Thranduil wished to avoid greatly because as long as she did not deny it there was _time_. Time for his son or Isíl herself to change their minds and avoid broken hearts. 

_Time to find a way around the blasted plotting of Dwarves!_

Across the Forest Halls Legolas Greenleaf set Isíl’s basket of fabric inside the doorway of her weaving room. From there he went to the library to immerse himself in a poem. He was mildly regretful that he wouldn’t have the chance to tease Isíl into music and good company, but he wasn’t that surprised that she’d been swimming. It was a favorite past time of hers and one of the few she could get caught up in enough to forget her work over. If he’d only been a bit faster he could have joined her it looked like as well, from what few marks were left by the feet of an elf maiden in flight.

SSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl had just dried her hair from the bath that had followed her trip to the river and was now running a comb through it. Her clothing – for she had gone in fully clothed – lay on racks in front of her room’s fireplace drying. The outer dress’s heavier wool steamed lightly in the heat while her inner dress just draped there forlornly as though passing judgment on the sodden slippers and stockings below. Either way Isíl felt quite well.

Isíl listened to the music drifting down from Merewen and Tari’s room – it was somber and soft but deeply sweet in tone and harmony- and wriggled her toes in the thick carpet in front of her hearth. It was a good day. A warm fall day. She felt like music today, and perhaps dancing. She certainly felt like lace. Not the tiny delicate kind, but the thicker, heavier kind that required a board and a spider’s web of threads to cast button-hole stitches upon. The kind that trimmed sturdy linen handkerchiefs and woolen winter stockings, not summer’s silken things. 

Feeling as well as she did Isíl – who had always been conscious of her clothing as an expression of her craft – dressed particularly well. As it was a cold evening she chose her underthings first. A shift so silken fine it almost floated and was edged with lace like cobwebs and frost-patterns on window glass. Then over that she chose a tight-sleeved gown in blue like Mithrandir’s pipe-smoke worked through with a pattern of golden oak-leaves and embroidered along throat, sleeve-edges and hem with copper brambles. Her hair she left loose but slipped the copper, gold, and amber circlet that had been a parting gift from her sister weavers in Lorien around her brow and hunted down the slippers that matched her dress. As it was a long skirt with a soft train behind it Isíl didn’t bother with stockings. As long as she only indulged in slow dances no-one would know.

She was just looking through her firmer lace threads when one of the King’s guards knocked on her chamber door.

SSSSSSSSS

Thranduil sat upon his throne with his one remaining son standing by his side. In front of him stood a company of dwarves and their king. Once before they’d best cast before him in rags and in peril; the victims of spiders and evil times. Now Thorin Oakenshield and the twelve had had brought with him – five new for his kinsmen and heirs were too injured for the journey into the Wood and three of the company had refused to journey back into Thranduil’s halls even to enjoy watching him be embarrassed – were garbed in rich armor and clothed in the power of the Kingdom Under the Mountain and its rebirth. 

Thranduil sat poised on a knifeblade of regrets. He was not so far gone from the peaceful man he’d been and the friend of Dwarves he’d considered himself to be a century ago that he wished he had caused Thrain’s son harm or harm to his companions. However in hindsight even an elf’s vision is clearer and in his fear of the dragon and his hurry for it to take no notice of his people if it could be arranged so…

Food and a few days shelter for a shattered people would have saved him much now that was costly and cost him little then that he held of worth.

“If the maiden is accounted too young, then she accounted too young, but I would still thank her for the princely gift.” Thorin spoke simply, in the deep harsh voice that sounded so alien in the Elven palace, and dark eyes that glittered so perfectly at home in the dark of even a well-lit cavern. “If she is not _precisely_ too young and spoken for then I should like to hear it from her own lips. If the second demand seems harsh surely gratitude does not?” 

“Of course.” Thranduil agreed and did all that was left to him to do; he waited and he thought of possible responses to what was sure to be a tense situation.

Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror merely stood his ground, injured still, but strong and quiet and – inarguably – winning.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

The elf maiden Thorin had chosen was a pleasing choice as soon as he found out more about her. She was a skilled weaver who had made the gift she had presented herself, no less. Which meant she’d actually be _worth something_ besides simple vengeance when it came to her upkeep if this went anywhere; which it would not. Moreover his first thoughts that she was not meant to be chosen were proven not half so good as the truth; she was not meant to be an option at all.

Instead Thranduil’s only living son wanted her! Now Thranduil’s family had been whittled down by darker powers and _his_ heir could face pain and disappointment and heartbreak. Even if the elves didn’t go through with it – and Thorin still did not believe they would – he won. He’d caused Thranduil more than embarrassment; he’d finally _hurt_ the elves.


	2. Chapter 2

She wasn’t too bad to look at, either. She walked in the room and was of equal height with the guard who escorted her. This Isíl was hairless of body – or at least of face like the rest of the world he was ignorant as to the full hairlessness of elves – as the others of her kind, but pale hair, closer to ivory in color than blond or gold, framed her dark gray-blue dress down to her hips. The dress itself was of usual elvish make; full sleeves and a tight form following their extenuated legs and waist. Like a dwarf or other sensible creature had been stretched on a rack and then stayed that way.

Her skin was soft and clear and touched just visibly by that strange inner light they all possessed, and her face had the planes and angles and curves of a sculpture brought to life. If her clothing was fine and the jeweled band around her head wrought with skill to look like tiny fallen leaves and clusters of amber berries he at least appreciated the workmanship. 

“Lady Isíl.” Thranduil nodded at her in greeting and the elf maid curtsied deeply in response with the expected grace for one of her sort. “There has been a misunderstanding.”  
The lady looked up, confused, and Thorin didn’t bother to hide his smirk.

SSSSSSSS

Elves didn’t stare rudely. They were, however, very good at seeing a lot very quickly and thereby avoiding rudeness and still getting what they wanted.

Isíl didn’t think that the Dwarves Thranduil had held captive before had been properly described to her before. Yes, some had large noses and one was very fat, but other than that they seemed fairly proportioned creatures? Short, yes, but so were some men – if few were quiet that short – and wider across the shoulders and down through the hips than elves were want to be, but Isíl hardly found them ugly. 

Nor were their spirits anything dark to look at. There was greed there and a great deal of possessiveness. There was also anger and a thirst for debts paid. There wasn’t, however, any of the slavering hunger for _hurt_ and hatred of living things that flowed off Orcs and Goblins and the Giant spiders and stuck to their surroundings and befouled them. 

Their king – because the tallest dwarf who stood in the center of their party and faced Thranduil was definitely a king – held a spirit that was harsh and bright and crisscrossed with stains of loneliness and scars of loss, but despite that it was not a _dirty_ spirit; simply a damaged one.

She had no idea why she’d been brought before her king and theirs, though, unless her gift had given some offense? It shouldn’t have, though, because underneath his armor the king was wearing the dark blue velvet she’d slipped onto the litter of gifts…

“A misunderstanding, my Lord?” Isíl rose from her curtsey at Thranduil’s nod and began to go over anything else she might have done lately that could have caused this.

She couldn’t think of anything. She was often called a bit tiresome or staid by others and she had to admit that compared to the jests and pranks and laughter that flowered around some of the other wood elves they were at least partially right…

“The gifts sent to King Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, some days ago were courtship gifts.” Thranduil went on, his voice serious and his tone perfectly conveying tolerant embarrassment at a youth’s mistake. “You included one as well, and yet you are not ready for marriage, are you not?”

There was no look or word passed between father and son for the Dwarves to see but Isíl felt the skin across his shoulders creep in guilt as Legolas’ spirit pressed upon his father’s as it encouraged him to say something further.

“Or, if you were, your heart would be promised elsewhere?” Thranduil added with a hint of barely discernible pressure in his voice.

Oh, she had terrible luck.

It was often said about her, speaking of her lack of close kin and her dour – by the standards of young elves – personality. That Isíl had terrible luck and a bit of merriment and happiness would improve it. Now it was said with nothing so unsubtle as a wink and a nudge, but the thoughts and feelings were there even if the gestures of Men were not. 

Isíl was lovely and fair as a harvest moon with distant blood bonds to many fine houses and Legolas was silver-gold and the son of Kings of Elves. He was full of merriment and laughter and would bring that to her as well. Her heart was asleep but he would wake it and bring her from childhood to adulthood and sadness to happiness.

Isíl didn’t feel sad, she felt unharassed.

She didn’t feel unmerry, just quiet.

Isíl didn’t feel that she needed anyone to make her into anything and she was quite happy with herself.

 

And she was so terribly, terribly, tired of everyone inferring she was too young to make intelligent decisions when she had spent her life quietly weighing her decisions and not making rash ones. 

At least not until now, apparently?

Thranduil sat patiently upon his throne with Legolas by his side; the composed heir to an entire Elven Realm. To Isíl’s left stood thirteen foreign dwarves. They were of a different race and… apparently she’d invited their king to court her. 

Of all of the things Dwarves and Elves had in common they both shared the bond of beyond a lifetime with their spouse…

Isíl felt her eyes flicker back to Legolas and Thranduil on the throne. Then back to meet the eyes and spirit of the King Under the Mountain. 

The dark, flinty glaze glittered at her in the half-light of Thranduil’s hall, but his spirit watched the throne.

Legolas’ spirit and eyes and those of his father were upon her. They watched her movements. They watched her expression. They perceived her spirit and watched it flutter like a caged bird unsure where to fly now that a door had been opened.

Legolas wanted to make her happy… Forever… Whether she wished to be or not?

Isíl looked back at the Dwarf-King, and found the eyes dark and steady and the soul still staring at King Thranduil. His spirit cried for vengeance against the king and her kind, but…

But his spirit wanted nothing from her. _Nothing_.

“My heart is still my own,” Isíl spoke clearly into the nearly empty room, her voice echoing back to her a decision finally made. “but I am not so young that I would not wish to be courted were it in the right spirit.”

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

“Well,” Fíli was sitting beside his brother’s bed, and Kíli was grinning despite being wan after a long day with the dwarvish healers working on helping him regain use of what was left of his right leg. “are you married yet?”

“And how pale did the Elf-King get?” Kíli asked with real enthusiasm. “I’ve got a bet with Ori that if he gets much lighter he’ll go transparent and all you’ll see is a suit of clothes and a caplet of leaves sitting atop a giant elk ruling in Mirkwood.”

Thorin Oakenshield sat down on the other unoccupied stone chair in the room and reached out to adjust the thick wool of his nephew’s blankets while enjoying the best laugh he’d had in years.

“A bet I shall have to endeavor to help you win, sister-son.” Thorin grinned fiercely as his laughter died down to a chuckle. “However, no, I am not married yet. The _proprieties_ must be observed after all. In truth I’m not even betrothed.”

“So you’re going to _court_ the elf maid?” Fíli asked, frowning. “How do you court an elf?”

“Fruit.” Kíli answered firmly.

Which got Thorin laughing again, honestly. 

“Aye, I’m courting her.” Thorin allowed, snorting. “And there will be no fruit. It’s far too likely that would fail to annoy them and I’ve not had my fill of distressing the elves.”

“So what will there be, Uncle?” Fíli asked, by far the more tenacious of the younger of Durin’s heirs. “I mean… do you still intend to take this through until its end?”

“I do.” Thorin sat back, sneering. “The elves owe us debts they can never repay and as war against them would be irresponsible for our people’s future I’ll take weregild instead. They’ve nothing in common with us in honor, but we do share the wisdom to treasure our children. 

There’s nothing I could take from them that they would suffer more from the loss of than a young elf-maiden and I’ve found one that the loss of will discommode Thranduil farther than any other… Not that they’ll go through with it, but the farther I take it the more they will twist.”

“Even better,” Dwalin, who had followed Thorin in a pace behind carrying a tray of food for the four of them to share, chuckled with wicked glee. “this one isn’t even _unwilling_.”

“And _that_ ,” Thorin rumbled in great satisfaction, “is the greatest insult to the elf-king of all.”

SSSSSSSSSS

Lord Celeborn looked up from his book to see his wife sliding out of her gown and into a shift to rest for the night. Nenya glittered upon her finger in the light passing through the malorn trees as their home amongst the leaves shivering in the starlight. Putting his book on the side table Celeborn turned back the covers on his wife’s side of their bed and took her second pillow to better prop himself up.

Coming to bed in her sleeveless shift Galadriel reclaimed her second pillow and slid underneath the covers as Celeborn picked his book back up. 

“A messenger from the Greenwood came.”

“I know.” Galadriel agreed as she stole his second pillow from behind his back and augmented her own as she sat and began to plait her long, shining hair into a loose braid for sleep. “He will be going to the Gray Havens next and Rivendell on his return trip.”

“Odd.” Celeborn retrieved his pillow from behind his wife as she leaned forward to pluck a hair ribbon from the table on her side of the bed. “Normally they go to Rivendell twice.”

“It’s a merry place.” Galadriel agreed.

Celeborn went back to reading his book and Galadriel hummed softly to herself as she finished attending her hair and settled down to sleep. Several moments passed and Celeborn, smiling, turned the page.

“You were right, she did end up being courted by a dwarf.” Celeborn commented idly. “You’ll have to provide the mother-gift, of course, as hers is lost to her and she has no close kin. Did her grandmother leave one?”

“I will and she did leave one such jewel.” Galadriel allowed, peacefully, her blue eyes closed. “I am well prepared for my duties, husband, as always.”

Blowing the candle out with a gesture Celeborn set his book aside and slid down next to his wife in bed and bent to put his lips by her ear.

“You win.” Celeborn whispered.

“I always do.” Galadriel, Lady of Lorien, smiled as her husband’s silver hair was the last thing to slide beneath the covers of their bed.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

“Lord Círdan sent word back with the messenger.” Merewen offered hesitantly as she slid into the one lone seat for guests that Isíl kept in her quarters.

Isíl’s quarters weren’t where she spent most of her time. She slept in them and she kept her things in them, but usually she was to be found out in the wood looking for more materials to weave or dye her weavings with, or in the weaving or sewing rooms of the palace working on a project. So unlike some elves her quarters featured more chests and baskets of projects in progress or yarn or such things than it featured musical instruments or furniture for friends. Her lute sat on the foot of her bed and the small, slender silver flute she favored was sitting beside her comb on her bedside table. The one chair she kept was the one she usually sat in when she chose to work in solitude in her room.

“As you’re an adult he cannot forbid you from allying your heart where it will, but he does send his strongest disapproval of your choice.” Merewen went on. “The king will probably talk to you about it tomorrow.”

Isíl sighed and sank down on the end of her bed, tugging a stray twig out of her hair. The blue-silver dye that Merewen favored but could never make quite right required – amongst other things – the spent shells of robin’s eggs but could only come from the nests of birds who had hatched happily and healthily. Isíl had been in the trees all day.

Hiding.

Because the Elves of the Greenwood were convinced that somehow her tragic past had broken her mind and she was insane. Isíl, unfortunately, had not entirely decided she disagreed with them yet.

“Why did you say yes, Isíl?” Merewen demanded. “If it was to spite Tari’s insensitivity to your age then you are merely proving your youth.”

“The King Under the Mountain wants nothing from me, or of me.” Isíl replied, opting for the truth rather than the silence she’d granted such beseeching requests with previously.

Silence wasn’t doing her any good and Merewen would refuse to leave her quarters save by anything but force and while Isíl was fairly sure she could oust the smaller elf maiden from her quarters she had no desire to give anyone _proof_ of mental instability to go along with their suppositions.

“Yes, he does! He wishes to embarrass our people and make you his trophy!” Merewen protested. “Another pretty treasure to be trotted out on display to show his greedy dwarven _greatness_!”

“There are worse things in life than being treasured!” Isíl pointed out, thoroughly annoyed that every female elf of any age in the Greenwood had dropped by to hint at the horrors she must not understand that she was facing.

That the Dwarven-King would try and force himself on her and her spirit would break and flee to the Undying lands. That she would be sentenced to slowly fade from life in the lonely dark halls of the Dwarves. She’d even been forced to endure a particularly painful visit from Seremela where the elder elf maiden had thought to bring a medical text and engage in educating her about how elflings were made. As if she weren’t quite old enough to have already endured that talk from her Grandmother before she’d left for the sea.

“Dwarves don’t treasure, they _covet_.” Merewen pointed out.

“If Elves could not covet just as sharply as any dwarf our race would have been spared many evils over the ages.” Isíl stood from the bed and went over to one of her wardrobes. “Merewen I have to pack for the trip to Erebor and find a very specific courtship gift to fit with Dwarven traditions – not to mention the many other things I have to do. If you are not here to help me, please, go help someone else.”

Merewen sighed greatly and shot her a sorrowful look and Isíl just resisted hitting her with a pillow, or throwing a ball of yarn at the back of her head as the elder elf maiden gracefully slipped out of her room and left her with her thoughts.

By the Grace of the Valar, _what_ was she doing?

SSSSSSSSSSSS

“A romantic picnic.” Kíli stared up at his brother, his face less pale than it was even the day before and his eyes alight. “Really? _Uncle_?”

“Aye.” Fíli flopped down in the chair beside his brother’s bed, barely wincing as his weight settled. “Thranduil insisted that some Elvish traditions be honored as well. Balin put money on it being the elf just angling for time and nobody would take the bet.”

“I don’t blame them.” Kíli agreed, snorting. “Obviously nobody’s told Thranduil that revenge _is_ our Uncle’s one true love. Have you had any word from mother?”

“Yes, the ravens brought back word of our people journeying here while I was standing with Uncle receiving the men from Laketown.” Fíli agreed, his grin warming substantially. “Mother and Gloin’s wife and Gimli are all amongst the first wave and should be here in another fortnight. Gloin, Noin, and Bifur have set out with some of our people to meet them and provide them more protection on the road.”

“Well, that’s great then, I’ve missed Gimli.” Kíli leaned back against his pillows. “He’d have been a good hand on the quest if he’d been just a couple of decades older.”

“Sure, but he wasn’t and he was needed where he stayed anyway.” Fíli shrugged. “We couldn’t leave and take all of the best smiths away. With Uncle alone gone they lost their best weapon’s smith. Those who’ve opted to stay will have a great deal of work to do in our absence.”

“Not the least because they’ll be brokenhearted at the loss of our company.” Kíli agreed, grinning and leaning over to jab his brother with an elbow.

Fíli was so happy to see his brother finally, visibly, improving in strength that he didn’t even bother pretending to seek repayment for the jab. 

“But, still… a romantic picnic?” Kíli mused. “How terrifying do you think he’ll manage to make _that_ for the poor elf maiden?”

“That sounds like something to wager on.” Fíli grinned and stood. “Shall I get Balin?”

“Indeed.”

SSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror was having… fun.

Yes, this was fun. 

He had to admit, there was not the prevalence of whining and vapors he’d expected out of the elf maiden, but it was more than made up for by the expression of the chaperone who Thranduil had appointed. The self-same over-indulging guard whose keys Bilbo had snatched and who had kept Thorin and his allies locked in the darkness now was enjoying the task of silently monitoring the “proceedings”. 

By Mahal’s hammer and forge he’d be damned if he didn’t make it a miserable experience, too.

For this romantic meal “alone” Thorin had chosen a spot even a dwarf-woman would have looked askance at. Mostly because it was in the middle of nowhere in the miles at the roots of the Lonely Mountain down a winding series of tunnels and interconnected shafts that required even a dwarf to repeatedly duck to pass through most of them. Then, once the chamber in question was reached it was not a great shaft with thick veins of tumbling gold lighting it in the dark, but a great dark lake spread out like a bent saucer and strewn with jagged rocks.

Armed with a single lantern, a large hamper of food he had personally selected, and sensible clothing, Thorin Oakenshield prepared to court an elf maiden in a manner only a dwarf would – or could – dream of doing.

The start of the journey was the beginning of his amusement. The formal greeting in front of his throne, with the elves before him like petitioners, and the tall, fair elf maiden looking serene outside of her very uncertain dark blue eyes was especially amusing. The guard’s ire and trepidation were visible even beneath the elven ice. Thorin left the others in her party of guards to Dwalin’s tender mercies and Fíli’s sense of amusement and proceeded with his own plans.

The first tunnel he took them down was tall enough, but it had served as a vent to many of the old forges he wanted to see burn anew. As such it had two centuries of ash and soot built up along the walls just waiting to coat clean elven hands and garments. Because even with their strange ability to keep immaculate in almost any situation Thorin was betting than today he would see that ability stretched beyond its limits.

The elf maiden handled the soot fairly well, he’d admit. Her skirts were not so long today and she’d hitched them over one arm to prevent them from trailing in it. Her hands were not so easily guarded, though, as at times it was necessary even for Elven balance to reach out against a wall to hurtle a barrier of stone or balance over loose rock cast over the bottom of the first tunnel. The guard was not so lucky and forgot himself enough to brush his hand over his face twice, leaving him with mask to make a storybook brigand jealous. Unfortunately nobody fell and no-one was injured, but Thorin hadn’t expected clumsiness out of an elf anyway.

Every other bad trait known to Middle Earth perhaps, but not clumsiness.

In the end the journey was complete and Thorin spread the heavy tarp cloth he’d chosen as a blanket over the jagged rocky shore of the lake and set the hamper down on top of it. Holding out one thoroughly dirty hand he smiled at his prey.

SSSSSSSSS

Isíl was actually enjoying herself. The King Under the Mountain was dour company at best, but he did have something of a sense of humor. The evidence of which was poor Méhtan’s suffering.   
It hadn’t entirely been the head of the guards’ fault that the Halfling and Thorin, son of Thrain’s company had escaped. After all, one could certainly blame a man for drunkenness on duty, but blaming them for whatever otherworldly tricks Mithrandír had left in the Halfling’s was a bit of a stretch. Though judging from the punishments that Méhtan had incurred Lord Thranduil considered himself very flexible.

Méhtan was a good, solid elf, if not counted amongst the wise. That said, he was a very _elvish_ elf, and one who had never had any desire to journey beyond the woods or learn of other cultures. He was content with the languages of beasts and birds and trees and found men of little interest and dwarves of no interest at all. Méhtan had not even journeyed to Erebor in all the time that the Lonley Mountain had been a dwarven kingdom, and this despite living not five days walk from the Lonley Mountain’s door for much of an age before the Dwarves had come to it even!

Not that Isíl felt she had much room to speak of his closed in nature. She herself had never even met a member of the other races until now. She was young and had been as carefully guarded as any elf-child. If she was being honest she had to admit that she was guarded even more fiercely as a child of parents already lost to those of their kin still dwelling on Middle Earth. 

Isíl, however, was as curious as any of her kind. She liked to see new things and understand their workings. One of the greatest pleasures of weaving was that gathering materials allowed her an excuse to wander all over the elven realm at her pleasure and with few to distract her from her task or notice that she took a bit of extra time to listen to the whispering of the trees or the chatter of the birds. Not that anyone would have dissuaded her from doing so, but such fierce encouragement would have been offered with directions as to how she must continue to do so in the future would have functioned much the same as discouragement. 

Either way, King Thorin’s attempts to discomfit her were turning out… fun. The messy, dank, dirty passages he was leading them down were perilous to ankles and feet clothed in slippers worn with the anticipation of wide polished pathways. This meant that the care with which an elf already placed their feet had to be extended and eyes and ears stretched far in the dark. Especially when a long-gown had to be managed as well as loose hair! 

In turn Isíl would admit she had less to contend with than her guard. Méhtan had in his care a long sword which challenged his ability to stoop through low passages as its hilt projected past his shoulders. Méhtan was also one of the few elves significantly taller than Isíl and it told on his ability to navigate the passages they were going through without picking up grime. Moreover, when they went through that muddy stretch her chaperone had been forced to make a choice; either he could be rude and step upon the bits of stone and edges of the corridor walls that would present dry footfalls himself or he could try and walk across the surface of the wet mud without getting dirty and let her have the better path. Being of decent manners he tried the second and only mostly succeeded.

He would have succeeded more fully had the King Underneath the Mountain not done quite so much splashing when he slogged through the mud like a bison crossing a river. Then again, Isíl supposed that that had probably been the point. After standing for a moment – and rinsing her hands – on the edge of the underground lake and enjoying the silence she returned to her “host” and his “courtship”. 

She supposed that she was about to find out what Dwarves considered small talk because she sincerely doubted that Thorin Oakenshield would waste what they considered actual romantic conversation on this endeavor. Well, that and perhaps she would learn something about Dwarven cooking…

SSSSSSSSSS

To Thorin’s disappointment the elf maiden didn’t turn her nose up rudely at the food he set before them. Oh, she was a nibbler like all Elves, but she sat politely enough and ate in unsure silence. That she was young by Elven standards was easily visible. Not in her appearance but in her bearing. She had the grace of her people, but he saw less of the detachment that shielded her elders.

“May I ask you a question?” Isíl asked, her head tilting and the fall of straight wheat-colored hair catching the light.

“Yes.” Thorin replied, having grown tired of the strained silence. 

Watching the guard stand still and still manage to cast an air of fidgeting about in frosty disapproval had only been amusing so long. Thorin, for all that he knew that bloodless revenge was a King’s best answer when his people’s revenge was at stake, would still have preferred to lay sword to neck over the offense of his imprisonment. 

“What’s in this?” The maiden’s eyes were dark enough blue that in the limited light of the one lantern Thorin had brought they appeared black, wide, and curious.

“It’s stuffed goat’s stomach.” Thorin supplied. “The crunchy bits are fried hog intestines.”

Thorin Oakenshield got the singular pleasure of watching an elf turn green at this point, but he gave the girl credit; she didn’t spit the food out. In fact she continued eating the plateful of sausage and yeast-butter smeared toast squares until she was politely done. As any courting dwarf would do, Thorin displayed his wealth and ability to provide for his future bride by refilling her plate with a smile. Her slightly sick look was reward all on its own.

“I can’t help but notice that the elves of the Wood have no problem eating meat.” Thorin asked as a way to encourage the girl to eat despite her obvious disgust. “Why were the tables at Rivendell devoid of it?”

“I – what?” The elf maiden’s head came up and her fork, unfortunately, went down. “Lord Elrond and his sons are known to be fine and avid hunters and their table is renowned.” 

“If that is the case why were we only presented green food?” Thorin demanded. 

“Perhaps it was in jest?” The elf maiden sitting across from him, both towering over him and seeming immeasurably more fragile than his own sturdy form offered, seeming quite young. 

“Lord Elrond’s sense of humor and that of his son’s is… well-known amongst our kind.”

“Fine hosts, elves,” Thorin offered in a low voice, “that would either jail their guests or make light of them for their own amusement.”

“Well,” Isíl offered hesitantly, “I blame his human blood? Men are strange creatures.”

Thorin Oakenshield, quite against his will, had to agree with that.

SSSSSSSS

“So, did she enjoy lunch?” Bombur asked cheerfully as he settled at the King’s table for the evening meal. The elf maiden had retired with her guard to the elven tents set up in Dale and the five other guards stationed there.

“Unsurprisingly given the time they spend in trees Elves turn green when utterly revolted.” Thorin chuckled. 

Money predictably changed hands with Kíli grumbling because fruit hadn’t made an appearance and he was still maintaining himself the local expert on Elvish courtship thanks to a few chance exchanges that he’d witnessed in Rivendell. 

“Actually the tripe and leavings stuffed stomachs weren’t bad.” Thorin went on. “I’d leave out the fried bits, though.”

“Oh, I know.” Bombur enthused. “I tried one myself in cooking and have been thinking that perhaps the lung and heart would work best, and sheep definitely, not pig.”

“So you were trying to cook the most disgusting thing you could think of and still eat without being poisoned and you _tasted_ it?” Kíli asked from his chair, sitting up comfortably now and holding his mug of ale paused at his lips.

“Well, of course, why wouldn’t I?” Bombur demanded and Thorin quietly handed his plate backwards to one of the two servants he’d finally accepted – Thorin was discovering that after years of self-reliance the servants and staff of his youth put him ill at ease – and then got up from the table, leaving the other dwarves to argue over Bombur’s cooking and eating habits.

He went instead to see the progress of his people. The damage wrought by Smaug was terrific in many places and nearly nonexistent in others. Smaug had had no interest in removing any greater wealth from the ground and while he’d scoured the larger chambers and quarters for treasure the dragon had made no effort to get into the many spaces and living quarters which his huge form would not pass into with ease. As such the damaged realms were the great, public spaces of Thorin’s youth. 

The royal living quarters had been badly but simply damaged; with walls pulled down for access to the treasures therein, but not much more. That had been easily and quickly fixed to grant Thorin and his heirs privacy as they healed. The other, larger spaces would take years to fully restore. The throne itself had only endured because it was easier for Smaug to pass through to the treasury by crushing the walkways to the left of the throne rather than the throne itself. 

Thorin finished looking over the broken archways and the few that were intact and spoke to the workmen still on shift setting right the proud halls of their home. He’d never had the common touch as a young dwarf and he’d never needed it. He’d never had his grandfather Thror’s innate friendliness and warmth and he never would. He would get by, though, as he always had, and if only some of his people had given him all their faith and belief, well, the others would now that he had proven his worth in gold and stone.

Thorin finally went to the heights above the restored front gates. Or, more accurately spoken, the improvised front gates for they were not restored to their former glory. After the throne room was fixed he would have to have them tear down the heavy and awkward new ramparts and begin work on new construction to set it back the way it was, but for now the internal majesty of his kingdom was more important to the way his people saw their triumphant return. If their gates were not a wonder yet at least they were strong and had stood hard and fast against enemies.  
And allies.

The elves were yet betrayers and only a fool trusted in the word of Men. No, he would speak to Balin about it tomorrow and as soon as more of their people arrived from their home in exile Thorin would set as many of them as practicable to fixing their front door.

“My King.” Balin’s respectful voice drew Thorin back from his thoughts and he turned to nod at his father’s friend and advisor. 

“Aye, but you’ve known me as Thorin longer.” The taller dwarf shrugged and then turned to stare out over the once bare and blackened ground of Smaug’s desolation. 

Whether it was seeded by the blood of their battle or even the earth rejoiced at the death of the Terrible One the ground was now a rolling meadow filled with the soft scent of fresh-sprung fall grasses and late wildflowers. 

“I have.” Balin allowed, staring out with him at the moonlit expanse. “I, that I have, lad… Remember that time when you were a wee badger and found that pair of earrings your father meant for your mother in his pocket?”

A memory so long buried underneath horror and hate that Thorin had not realized he’d had it sprung upon him. Of Thrain carrying him in his arms, the rich robes of state they were both wearing smelling new and Thorin’s being slightly too large so that he could yet grow into them a bit. He’d been playing in his father’s pockets and found the little wooden box…

“… and no sooner had you taken it out and opened it than what happened?” Balin chuckled.

“Mother… came around the corner looking for us because sh-she said only father would arrange a feast for the anniversary of their marriage and then show up late for it.” Thorin’s voice was harsh and low as the memory played out before him. 

His mother’s dark eyes alight as she teased his father about their toddling son showing up with a gift when Thrain had not, and Thrain - for all his dignity – playing along with it. The laughter. Being held aloft in the air and lightly shaken in jest by his father as his mother slipped the sapphires into her ears and preened at these latest jewels…

“Aye, laddie, just so.” Balin sighed and turned his eyes from Thorin’s face, granting his king some privacy, and looking not across the reborn desolation at the far Elven wood but instead down at the Men’s river camp and the little cluster of bright elven tents amidst the rough log cabins Bard’s people had thrown up in preparation for winter.

“Do you think of your wife and sons often, Balin?” Thorin said, then cursed his own stupidity and shook his head. “No, that was foolish. I meant… Do you think of them _more_ often here? Now that we’ve reclaimed our home?”

“I do at that my King. I do at that.” Balin allowed a small smile, deeply sad to cross his face. “Right now the sweetness is great and the bitterness less, for I have done them proud, but… Ah, well, yesterday is behind us and tomorrow ahead. No since in guessing what the latter will bring. Have you seen my brother lately?”

“Dwalin?” Thorin blinked in surprise. “Only to speak of official business. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, far from it.” Balin laughed, merry again, despite his age and loss and the pain crinkled at the corners of his eyes and clinging to the tips of his beards. “Far from it. In fact a lively young dwarf-woman from Dain’s people has struck his fancy, and him hers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old bachelor announced his wedding plans tomorrow, if she’d let him.”

Thorin was fairly sure he was gapping, at least until he burst out laughing.

“And even the mighty have fallen.” Thorin was still chuckling. “What’s she look like?”

“Aw, a wee nip of a thing from the line of the Stonefoots whose father came over and stayed with Dain’s people after Azanulbizar, not barely old enough to leave her father’s house.” Balin went on. “She’s got the finest, broadest, steely hands though and the most luscious sideburn curls I have seen in many a year, all in hearth-coal red.”

“No wonder Dwalin’s spoken to me only of duty, he’s found prettier company.” Thorin smirked across the new grown grass beyond them and resolved to find and torment his closest friend at the first opportunity.

“Not that hard, my King.” Balin chuckled. “Though your line is our oldest and greatest its direct lineage was, how shall we say, always one of merit before beauty.”

Thorin continued to chuckle, almost unable to believe that a day had come where he could enjoy such jests, as he rubbed a finger over his diminutive nose and thin, fine-featured face. A handsome dwarf he’d never been nor would his poor nephews be. It was a simple fact that while his mother had been a great beauty with her beaked nose and broad face and beetled brows both Thorin and Dís’ children had taken more directly after Durin’s line. Thorin’s father and grandfather had been luckier and both looked like their mothers.

“Speaking of marriage, however, my King, I am still keen to discuss yours.” Balin cleared his throat and Thorin turned his own gaze to the bright tents and snorted.

“Thranduil has no intention of going through with it.” Thorin shrugged. “He’s waiting for me to flinch.”

“You’ve never flinched a day in your life.” Balin snorted back. “But, though I have no right to say it, I was your father’s friend and lay claim on some small right to worry for you. So, if – in the _unlikely_ event that this somehow ends in you wedding an elf… what will become of _your_ wants Thorin Oakenshield?”

“I have everything I want, save vengeance, and my people’s welfare puts the vengeance I want beyond my reach.” Thorin replied, picturing the forests alight and the Elves wandering as homeless and bereft as he had been, and then putting the image away. “As it is, I am happy to simply harass him with this.”

“That does not-.”

“Answer your question. I know.” Thorin looked down at the tents and allowed his mind to go a step farther than it had yet and settled in thought on the subject. “This Isíl is all but a child by Elven standards. Young enough to make mistakes and not yet old enough to possess the endless arrogance of her people. She’s got a useful enough craft and she was not possibly one of those who made the decision to abandon us. Should things progress overmuch I am not distressed by the idea of being tied to her; if nothing else she’d adorn a throne prettily enough to Men’s eyes, and our people would enjoy the irony and the status of wresting a bride from them.”

“Thorin, to be blunt,” Balin’s diplomacy did reach an end, and often it reached it faster in regards to those choosing to be purposefully obtuse. “I was speaking of your affairs _personally_. The elves would use adultery against you and while I’m as proud of the lads as you are have you decided you want no other heirs?”

Thorin glared at the older elf, but it had little effect. Balin knew he was right and he did not back down so easily as many had assumed he would when first confronted by his gentle manners. He’d changed his king’s diapers at least once that Thorin knew of and proven himself willing to mention that when no other reminder would suffice.

“My desires have never been strongly of the flesh.” Thorin finally shrugged, simply stating fact.   
“My craft and my people occupy my thoughts more than bedroom trifles, it’s no shame among our people for it to be so, and I’ve raised Kíli and Fíli with Dís as though they were my own. I have no desire to disinherit them in any situation. Even were I to find a dwarven wife of my own I would not want to do that to them. Does my answer satisfy you, councilor?”

“It does.” Balin allowed, his voice wistful once more as his eyes turned to the stars overhead; glowing as the jewels they were and past even dwarven forges to create. “Forgive an old man his musings. My thoughts dwell with my losses here in the night, as you say.”

Thorin reached out and clasped a hand on Balin’s shoulder, staring into the night and offering silent company for the dwarf and the ghosts of his lost wife and children.

SSSSSSS

Isíl fancied herself as possessing no enemies, but she knew it was a falsehood. She’d felt fierce joy at the death of the Goblin Army and though she hadn’t been permitted to the battle despite knowing as much as all Elves were required of fighting she’d climbed a tall tree at the edge of the forest when she and the others had been called out to give healing after the fight. Looking out at the sea of dead, underneath the pain of loss that came with all of the good spirits snuffed out, she’d looked at the great sea of dead Orcs and Wargs and Goblins with satisfaction. 

That wasn’t unusual, any Elf would have rejoiced with her in so many of the foul creatures being dead.

Still, she’d never given a thought to revenge or a reckoning of any kind. Elves were, if not above that, then certainly not encouraged to turn their minds in such a direction. Revenge was the petty pleasure of Men and Dwarves. 

This was… more of a _game_ Isíl told herself with a certain anticipation. For the King Under the Mountain this game’s main player was Thranduil, and the goal was embarrassment and humbled pride as a price paid for the suffering of the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. Isíl herself was just a piece on the board of that game and only of tangential importance to the dwarf supposedly wooing her with intention to wed.

That didn’t mean she couldn’t play as well, though. It just meant – or Isíl was willing to bet it meant – that she could play with a bit less rancor and a bit less bite. After all, while he’d chosen to open their “courtship” with something that would discommode their chaperone more than herself and only plied her with something as harmless – if disgusting – as that stuffed stomach… thing… Isíl was a wood elf and hunted herself. She could clean game as well as anyone but that didn’t mean she wanted to eat the parts you picked out so they wouldn’t infect the meat with their intestinal drippings!

Ew. Just… ew.

Isíl thusly decided that she was going to become less passive. Despite the disgusting food the trip into the roots of the mountain had been _fun_. She’d been so sheltered and seen so little of the world, and was accounted so young that by the time she saw more of it sometimes she felt it would be so late that she had no choice but to _leave_ it before she’d seen anything. She’d been born in the Gray Havens by the Sea and the Sea called to her.

Not yet, though. Not before she’d seen some of Middle Earth. There were fine things to be seen here and fine days to be lived.

So, if the Dwarf King was going to play games… so would she. It was her turn to choose their courtship activity, after all, and she had so much long history to choose from. Of course almost everyone chose the more gentle activities now; music, poetry, and dance were favorites. Things lovers did.

“We’re going to climb trees.” Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror could not have looked less enthused about her answer to his _entirely appropriate by the letter of tradition and nothing else_ picnic if he tried.

“I have it on Mithrandir’s own authority that your people’s reputation as poor climbers of trees is entirely false.” Isíl smiled as sweetly as her lips would allow. “I would give you a chance to prove your skill.”

“And the purpose of this test of skill?” The King Under the Mountain rumbled and Isíl resisted the urge to laugh.

He’d anticipated every move that her King could make, she would imagine, but he hadn’t counted on one of the pawns making its own move.

“I thought we might go spider hunting.” Isíl smiled brightly and was surprised at the response she received. 

After the Dwarf King’s encounter with the spiders before had left him and his company so badly off she’d thought this would be a particularly onerous statement. Something of an apt taunt. 

After all, why on earth would anyone who’d come out so badly from one fight want another one?  
Instead Thorin son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain rather… perked up?

“Well, Elven courtships are more interesting than I had thought.” Thorin grunted and nodded towards the bow leaning unstrung against the tree by which she stood. “Is that your only weapon?”

This… perhaps Isíl should have learned more about Dwarves before making assumptions about any of them. Let alone one that Thranduil was now cursing daily as Cérdan sent more letters voicing his disapproval of The Marriage Debacle to his brother-king to complain about the involvement of his young kinswoman. 

SSSSSS

Thorin could have lived without having to climb the damned trees, but this wasn’t a bad way to spend an afternoon. The Elves – dishonest creatures that they were – didn’t have the innate stupidity that would be required to leave the Giant Spiders free in their realm now that the shadow had been chased from Mirkwood. So parties of Elves were going out to hunt down the spiders.

While he had no desire to assist any elf in any venture, he owed the foul things with their fangs and surfeit of legs a debt, and Dwarves were ever mindful of their debts. Fíli was enjoying himself as well. His young kinsman was out of their home under the mountain and in good enough health to fight again, if not too strenuously. Thorin had felt inviting him along for whatever joke fell upon today – and to enjoy the dyspeptic expression on Thranduil’s face when they met him in the forest clearing chosen for this farce - was an appropriate reward for.. everything. 

For trusting his Uncle so many times when a wise man would have deemed Thorin mad. For _surviving_ , Mahal be praised! All of it. Balin could handle the rebuilding for one day with Kíli there to learn from the elder dwarf’s wisdom as he learned to take his first steps on his new foot and into his birthright. Dwalin would be on guard against enemies as is, and Gloin, his son, and Dís herself would be arriving with the next wave of their people shortly. At that point Dwalin’s security teams could focus on the doors and other issues and free up some more of their people for the rebuilding efforts.

“That is a short bow, for an elf.” Fíli observed, slicing away at one spider’s legs with his left sword and striking another’s fat body with the other as he stood with his back to the tree. 

“A longer bow would be a hindrance up here.” Isíl replied, and shot a spider out of the tree above Thorin’s nephew.

Thorin himself had not fallen out of his tree.

He’d jumped.

No matter who said otherwise.

Either way he was on the ground putting an end to the largest of the spiders – and one that was familiar to him at that – with real pleasure. Orcist flashed in the air as he carved and cut away at the thing. First removing its legs and blunting its fangs, and then enjoying its screams of pain as he hacked away bit by disgusting, slimy bit at its fat body. Considering that many spiders had already fallen to his blade before he _jumped_ from the tree he was already fairly well covered in the slime that made up their innards.

Thorin had regretted bringing a small escort. Only Fíli and Ori were with him today, and his gesture of “trust” towards the Elven King had not gone unnoticed. A little well-placed trust, when obviously false, made as good an insult as excess force when either gesture was used effectively. Still, the others would have enjoyed a taste of revenge, no matter how filthy it left them, and he severely disliked being surrounded by the other elves in the hunting party.

Though getting glared at in seething jealousy by Thranduil’s son for the last five hours had been a source of great amusement. Not the least because the elf maiden who was at the center of it had managed with her people’s adroit cowardice to never at any time end up looking in Legolas Greenleaf’s direction when his eyes cast themselves upon her. Thorin was looking forward to how his nephew weaved the day into a tale for the others. Not to mention whatever betting would follow up to resolve itself at his table.

Ori – now armed with a sword rather than a slingshot – let out a piercing battlecry and came down out of the top of another tree – and how Ori had climbed over the elves below him Thorin wanted to know – directly on top of the last of the giant spiders they had surrounded and proceeded to slaughter. As the thing had been on a branch above and just slightly over Isíl the explosion of foul smelling slime that Ori’s boots produced as they squashed the monster spread out like watershed from an umbrella.


	3. Chapter 3

And in doing so liberally coated the elf maiden and two others of her kind in the stinking stuff.  
“My lady,” Thorin smiled up into the tree, where Isíl, Thranduil’s son, and one other elf Thorin did not recognize stood shaking the slime from their loose hair in disgust, and swiped a glob of the ichor from his eyebrow. “you do enjoy the most diverting past times.”

There was a long pause where Thorin congratulated him for the expressions of offense on every elvish face in the small, cluttered circle of trees they’d all ended up in and then the clearing filled with a sound that the elves, in truth, found as strange as Thorin did.

The helpless, stuttering, and then flowing laughter of a delighted elf maiden as Isíl collapsed into a sitting position against the trunk of the tree, still perched with perfect balance on her high branch, and proceeded to produce silver tones of amusement until tears ran down her face. Once Ori began to snicker at this Fíli began to chuckle and Thorin himself felt the sharp smile he’d offered the maiden stretch wider in actual, genuine mirth had at no-one’s expense.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

The appointed hour for their parting had not been reached and Isíl had been truly, horrendously filthy as had the three dwarves. Well, no, the King’s nephew had been decently clean. Tari had come out to meet them with a hamper of food and then beat a hasty retreat as soon as Fíli’s eyes had rested upon her, as if afraid another marriage offer from a Longbeard was in the works simply because the young dwarf had looked in her direction. Unfortunately that had sent Isíl herself into a fit of giggles entirely inappropriate to her age and she’d given up her attempts at perhaps recapturing her composure.

Having no desire to come back to the King’s palace in the Wood wearing not only her breeches, knee-length tunic, and the dark green leather surcoat she’d chosen but also several pints of spider innards she’d gone to where a large, but quiet tributary of the river crossed the road the dwarves were taking back to their home. Then, leaving her knives, bow, and bag upon the bank she’d dunked herself in the river fully clothed. The dwarves had shared a look and followed suit only after divesting themselves of anything that could rust.

She was still giggling as she rung her hair out, unfortunately.

At Thorin’s nod the two younger dwarves picked up their gear and went farther down the grassy bank, closer to where the chosen chaperone was trying to get his own self clean and was not doing his job of observing either herself or the Dwarf King at all.

“Elven courtship is an interesting affair.” The sheer dryness in Thorin’s voice could have aged and cured all the lumber in the forest, and it drew another giggle unwillingly out of Isíl. “Is that sort of thing actually normal?”

“I…” The truth is a tricky thing and likes to ambush a body when it is in a good humor, Isíl then discovered. “Perhaps an age ago, or two, but no, not now and – Well, I am not permitted sport involving weapons often.”

She had not meant to say that, and certainly wanted to offer no explanation to the the dark, sharp eyes sudden grasping at the strings and trails of her words like Isíl herself grasped at threads on her loom.

“I do not see why, you’re skilled enough for an elf.” Thorin Oakenshield grunted, leaning back against the boll of a tree, his arms crossed over his chest and the heavy wool – more of her own weave – clinging to the bulky, chorded muscles in his arms and with beads of water clinging to his dark beard and hair.

Isíl was suddenly struck with the idea that, while he was a head and shoulders shorter than she was and too broad and fierce for elvish beauty… The dwarf was not unpleasant to look at, and his spirit – dark and scarred and covetous though it was – shined in the dark. Not with the light of stars or moon of the warmth of the Eldar but with the low, sooty glow found in the heart of rubies or other dark jewels. The sudden mingled confusion of that thought and the fact that she’d never had such a thought of anyone before served to distract her from any attempt at dissimilation or silence like she usually offered when her kindred and her kind fished for words of feelings and thoughts in regards to her past.

“Elven children… fade and wither too often without their parents to guide them.” Isíl replied. “Mine were lost to me almost a century ago, when I was very young, and… They worry still.”

“They guard their own well.” The dwarf king’s voice was low and the accusation implicit.  
They had done little enough to guard their allies.

“We… we look inward too often in this age.” Isíl replied, wishing she’d said nothing instead.  
The dwarf king sneered and nothing more was said during the visit and Isíl went back to her looms and her craft with great determination.

SSSSSSSS

“He’s brooding again.” Kíli observed, leaning on his brother and trying not to clang too badly when he walked on his new foot.

The lower leg was crafted by his Uncle’s own hands of fine steel and set with lines and patterns of gold, but until Kíli got used to planting the textured leather sole of the thing properly he’d sound like a smithy on the march. It was taking some getting used to, and the amount of walking he’d done that day, exploring their home against Balin’s suggestion, had left him very tired.  
“Did something bad happen?” Kíli asked again and Fíli made a face. “Of course something bad happened; it’s Uncle Thorin.”

“That about sums it up.” Fíli agreed a second before a pair of large scarred hands reached down and smacked Durin’s heirs upside the back of the head.

Dwalin preceded past their protests as if he hadn’t struck either and marched up to where his king and friend stood on the ramparts of their temporary gate and stared across the not-quite-so-desolate-desolation at the dark woods on the horizon.

“I’m getting married tomorrow, I’d appreciate it, my King, if you didn’t miss it.” Dwalin opened the conversation with his usual tact and joined his king in glaring at the Elves who’d betrayed them twice in their lifetimes already.

“That would be difficult considering that I’m the one marrying you to the girl.” Thorin observed.

“Like I said, don’t miss it.” Dwalin replied. “Your absence would be felt.”

The edge of Thorin’s lips barely turned up.

Dwalin didn’t ask any more questions of him. Didn’t offer him guidance as Balin tried to do when his mood was clouded and dark. Though Balin’s advice was sadder of late and it pained Thorin to watch it. Balin was a prince amongst dwarves in a way that Durin’s blood could not make a man royal, and Thorin watched closely as Balin’s pleasure in being home, in their lost gold retrieved, and in the rebuilding of Erebor fought with the pain of his memories of lost love of family.

One day, Thorin’s bones whispered, Balin would leave and take many of their kin with him. 

Where he would go Thorin did not know, but… Thorin shook away the thoughts. He had no gifts of foresight as the Elves claimed nor did he want them. Disasters came along on their own, painful enough in their own time, there was no need to plot them out in advance and anticipate the tragedy. If he’d learned nothing from their Burglar it was that when you lived in darkness there was no reason to bring extra with you; Dwarves should light their halls, not dim them.  
The spider hunt had been invigorating. There was no pleasure in the company of elves, but there was much pleasure to be had in destroying evil creatures; especially those he owed a debt of blade and blood. Getting to actually see elf-kind filthy and as angry as wet cats over it had been particularly amusing, as had the evident naiveté of Isíl . 

It had been clear in her eyes that she’d thought no-one was listening to them down by the stream. That she could express discontent with her own people and not be heard. A foolish thought and even Thorin knew that not seeing an Elf meant nothing as to whether one was there or not. 

Perhaps her youth made her presume on her own senses? God knew Fíli and Kíli had suffered in their days as Thorin himself had long ago; perceived invulnerability was the first stupidity of those foolish years where youth and adulthood met.

But there had been a _hunger_ buried there underneath those polished, refined, useless Elven manners. A thirst to _speak_ and to speak to someone who would agree to an opinion expressed against the wisdom of her kind and her elders. Isíl the elf maiden was unhappy under the trees of Mirkwood and had been for some while.

Perhaps he would have grown tired of the charade had Thranduil not wanted to speak to him of it. Apparently Isíl had powerful – if distant – kin who were not happy with this “jest” as the Elf King called it. In truth Thorin had seen the real reason.

Isíl had granted him laughter and warmth that day; she’d _enjoyed_ herself and it had been greeted with frank surprise by the elves. Buried underneath their control that surprise was not simply at her mirth in regards to being covered in spider filth; it was in regards to the sound of her laughter itself. One of their own was not happy, and an outing with a _Dwarf_ had made her so. 

Seeing that had _hurt_ the betraying elf’s only living son and heir. The young elven warrior named Legolas had vanished after the Ori had jumped on the spider, and whether it was he himself who took word of the possibility – or simply the supposition of such – of real affection being possessed by the elf maiden for Thorin, or simply the youth realizing that all his efforts had brought his intended target little happiness Thorin did not know. Either way Thorin was sure that it was no the pressure of distant kin on Thranduil that had prompted his speech; it was anger over his son’s hurt.

Thorin had enjoyed the quiet wrath of the Elf King. He’d savored his exhaustion as he entreated him to stop playing with matters of the heart and petty rivalries. Thranduil had offered any non-living treasure of his realm in honesty, he maintained, and the offer was still open. Why not accept it? Or, if that failed, and only battle would suffice than Thranduil himself would meet Thorin upon a field for two only, and with the word of the elves as his backing that Erebor would not suffer for whatever the battle’s outcome, Thranduil and no-one else would face Durin’s line and their accusations.

Thorin had no use for the promises of elves.

“The burglar was right.” Thorin finally grunted, as the words he had spoken about his own honor and the honor of his line and intentions – words not meant at the time, but already creeping with the doubt pooling in the back of his mind –played back through his memory.

“Halfings are surprisingly smart for such stupid creatures.” Dwalin hummed his agreement. “Good cooks too.”

Thorin hummed his agreement back and stared darkly at the shadows of Mirkwood before he finally turned and went inside the walls of Erebor and went to bed. There was still part of his mind that found his bed being made and turned down suspicious. A childhood of privilege and years on the road had left Thorin with the habit of leaving his bed unmade and untidy unless he was either in it or his sister was near. Dís insisted good standards be set for her sons and his heirs and Thorin wasn’t about to chance his sister’s temper over a task as simple as making a bed. 

Now, though, to find his bed turned back and awaiting him made his eyes flicker into corners and underneath cabinets looking for the intruder.

It was a sad reminder that Erebor might have been won but the King he was now was not related much to the Prince his father and Grandfather had raised and trained. He would take back some of the jobs he had given the servants; he would sleep better for it.

Still, as he stripped and laid himself out underneath the covers he had to admit that Bilbo Baggins was right; Dwarves were not reasonable about shining things.

In his dreams light played over damp hair, silver and gold and the white of snow all entwined and wet cloth clung to a body too lithe for Dwarven beauty but full of otherworldly grace and light. 

And he resented it immensely.

SSSSSSSSSSS

The last two exchanges with the King Under the Mountain had been more formal and less amusing. Thranduil was under pressure from Círdan the Shipwright to put a stop to what his last letter had called “blatant nonsense and political posturing”. Lady Galadriel had proven silent on the subject, though, which Isíl appreciated. The Lady of Lorien was both kind and wise and it seemed like a kind of approbation to Isíl that she was the only one not inclined to attempt to mind Isíl’s affairs for her.

Not that she supposed she should be thinking of this dwarven courtship as any affair of hers. It was politically motivated and grounded in mistakes made by others when she was a child. Moreover they were cruelties inflicted not only by poor choice, but in regards to wrongs done ages hence and grudges hung on the shoulders of dwarves set dead in stone centuries before the birth of Thror, or Thrain, or Thorin under the mountain. The fact remained, however, that as everyone was – on the surface at least – acting as though this were a real courtship with true intentions to back it up they should have done as they would in such a case and stepped back from the will and choice of the two who intended to wed.

Not that that was what was happening, but…

Isíl released the breath she had been holding and stood up from her loom. The frustration of her predicament had at least been a productive thing. She’d gotten a great deal of work done as Tari and Merewen studiously avoided her – Isíl had given in and just been cross with them, sending them away and bidding them to only come again if they could find a positive thing to say about her life for it wasn’t theirs to live – as had most of the other Elves in Thranduil’s palace. So more bolts of fabric had joined those piled high in her storage closet and baskets of thread and yarn had reached the point of near-clutter around her looms.

None of which did anything for her irritation. A situation that had been, if nothing else, amusing was gone and replaced instead by something she couldn’t identify. The Dwarven King’s attitude had changed and she was no longer an amusing nonentity as she had been during the spider hunt and the badger painting that followed.

Isíl was _positive_ that the tradition of catching and painting badgers together was entirely made up. She would have bet gold on it. Isíl was even fairly sure which of the King’s nephews she would credit with the idea because there was no way that Thorin Oakenshield had come up with that sort of nonsense on his own.

Nevertheless a change had come over Thorin himself. While nothing had altered in the battle of wills between Thorin and Thranduil – the two kings were steadily engaged in a game of what the Lakemen called “chicken” in regards to whether or not any such wedding as would concern Isíl would take place – something vital had changed in the way that Thorin’s spirit had begun to rest on _Isíl_ during those times they were near each other, and she wasn’t entirely sure she liked it. She didn’t know quite what it was, either, save that it was not affection and it was not hate. It did not even truly feel like dislike, however there was much dislike in him for all things Elvish.

Isíl had just freed the fabric she’d finished from her loom and folded it when her ears picked up the familiar tread of light feet down the hallway outside her weaving room. It was the King’s butler and the bare rustle of parchment said that there had been more letters. As it was highly unusual for so much traffic in paper to go between elves she supposed it was another complaint from Círdan, or maybe a response from Imladrís. Thranduil had sent to Lord Elrond for advice on the matter, Isíl knew.

Laying the fabric over the unstrung loom Isíl decided that she’d had enough. Denied permission to go out into the forest in search of dye ingredient or any other excuse to ramble she went instead to the stables in search of something else to do. She’d never been good at doing nothing and any task right now seemed a better task than idle hands and an overactive imagination.   
Telia waited in the stable, as was to be expected. The dark gray horse with her lighter dapples and nearly black mane, tail, and points was not as light nor as lively as other Elvish horses, but she had been the least used of Lorien’s small stable when Isíl had come to the Greenwood and the stablemaster had made a gift of him to her. Telia was happy with the change as Isíl did not ride often and she was a lazy horse; getting no other exercise but a random hunting party or some other small task suited the dappled horse well.

Under the pretext of grooming her horse and bringing her an apple she didn’t need Isíl stood behind the large horse’s bulk, hidden from sight, and tried to think of what she was going to do next. Or, for that matter, decide what she was going to do at all. It was a subject she had spent the last decade not thinking about very strongly and if there was ever one thing she regretted about Durin’s line reclaiming its birthright in Erebor it was that now she had to think on it.

Her fingers were idly combing through Telia’s mane when she heard the Butler’s footfalls again. That was hardly cause for surprise as the elf in question had long been an avid rider. His horse was the most ridden in the stable and his stall stood across from Telia’s. The stablemaster liked to joke he was balancing the weight of the stable by putting the laziest mount opposite the most energetic.

Isíl had just begun to idly twine and plait strands of Telia’s mane, her hands moving almost without command as she overheard the Butler’s soft whispers and speech with the large bay gelding he favored. The Butler left soon, less aware of Isíl’s presence in her wish to not be discovered than he was aware of the presence of the sleeping moth resting in the rafter’s overhead, the Butler spoke without caution. Her hands now stilled and her spirit as quiet and singular as a turtle huddled in its shell Isíl came to another impulsive decision in a life that had long avoided them.

SSSSSSSSSS

Dís, Princess of Erebor, daughter of one king, Granddaughter to another, sister to a third, and mother of future kings got as royal a welcome to the Kingdom Under the Mountain as it was possible for her brother and her people to give. Thorin was under little illusion that the rejoicing was for either his or his sister’s benefit, though. 

For most of the dwarves this was a chance to finally celebrate. The greater number of Thorin’s people had not trusted him enough to follow him and reclaim their treasure and could claim no part in the great quest or renown that would follow it. They would live on as they had lived before and when their children asked why they had not braved the wilds and come at their king’s request they would have to answer that they had had not the faith or bravery to do so.

Then those who had rushed to them from Dain’s kingdom had come to them in the hour of greatest need to fight a battle. There had been no pause to celebrate afterwards and Mahal’s children had moved directly from seizing their home and protecting it to rebuilding it. To them Dís’ arrival was just an excuse for the festival atmosphere that they’d wanted for months by that point.

Thorin didn’t care. Dwalin had been the one to rush the young princess – a cosseted beauty draped in jewels and furs and velvet – from the dragon’s wrath those many years ago when Thorin was too busy keeping his father and grandfather alive to do more than pray that her guards would get her to safety. It had been that moment that had elevated distant blood to friendship between the exiled prince and the untried warrior Balin’s brother had been at the time.

In the months and years afterward, as they wandered through the wilderness it had been Thorin who had had to call for the sale of the few precious things they had carried off of Erebor on their backs to feed their people. Dís had never protested, nor even made him ask, for whatever fine thing she’d barely managed to retain and he’d needed. It had been offered before he could ask, always, and without a word on either of their parts. Shame shared in silence and regal pride in responsibilities kept as the dwarf-maiden hardened into a fine woman and skilled goldsmith in her own right and nobody’s cosseted anything.

But he’d yearned and sworn that he would give it all back to her one day. That for every unasked for trinket he’d supply a dozen and see her again be the princess she’d been born to be. He’d sworn he would bring them all back to their home again, but especially his kin. Dís would be a princess when he was King and her sons kings after his days were gone, and today he kept his word.

Dís’ limited patience with revelry – not that she couldn’t hold an axe or her ale as well as any of Thorin’s fellows – didn’t extend far past midnight, though. They had met her on the road, he and her sons, and led her proudly through the front gates – just beginning to be rebuilt properly – as Thor draped some of their mother’s jewels around Dís’ throat and let her son’s clasp her wrists with gold and gems. Then, when she had had enough, he wouldn’t allow any servant the honor of bringing her to her new quarters. He would have that honor, with his sister-sons in tow.

They had not had the time nor the partners to trade sufficiently to drape her bed in furs and velvet yet, but it was covered in clean, fresh blankets and pillows in beyond sufficient numbers. The rock-hewn furniture was polished brightly and he’d seen a great silver mirror, edged in gold, mounted on her wall beyond the small vanity he’d had taken from her girlhood domain and moved from the nursery to her adult quarters. The jewel safe was sitting freshly locked and shined and Thorin had taken particular glee in assisting his nephews in stocking it from their share of the treasure. All of their mother’s recovered jewelry and Thorin and Dís’ mother’s treasures now resided inside, as well as a few more things added out of love.

Those who thought Dwarves only craved wealth to hoard it had never seen the greedy light that touched their eyes and was satisfied only by the sight of wealth leaving their hands and falling into those of one dearly loved.

Dís was a dwarven princess so she did not upbraid her brother for allowing her sons to be injured; she was merely grateful all were alive and intent on keeping them that way. As a dwarven mother, however, reams of complaints and advice were yet falling upon her two sons’ heads as she took in their appearance and demanded a full report of all activities and adventures had by either. Up to and including accurate assessments of how each was doing their princely duty now that that included actual princely duties and not merely running about the hills after their uncle.

Leaving his nephews to their mother, and leaving Dís with the opportunity to fuss at them about _his_ health in turn, Thorin went to check on the progress of the revelry. Predictably it was nowhere near winding down. Nodding once at Balin – for Dwalin had vanished, newlywed that he was, and Gloin was no doubt rekindling banked fires with his own wife – Thorin left his chief advisor in charge of the rowdy company in the great hall. Balin had always enjoyed such things and it would do well to distract him from old memories and fresh grief.

He wandered through the darkened halls for a while, enjoying the quiet and enjoying the pride of ownership in having his rightful home again. He ended up in the treasury, looking about at the neat piles of sorted treasure with the pathways in between. They’d repaired the damage of the dragon well here, and finally you could actually lay your hands on a piece of the hoard if you actually wanted it and had some right to have it. 

Pushing away the whisper that sounded disturbingly like his grandfather in the last years of Thror’s reign he passed by the fact that there was not so much gold here as there once was. There would be more and Bard the Bowman had already spent no small amount of the treasure he’d received in buying tools and even some skilled labor from the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. 

Dale only grew to power because of the prosperity of Erebor and Dale’s prosperity had fed the Mountain’s and so it would be again. Besides, the wealth of the mountain was in the veins of gold running through it, and other such buried treasures. What was above ground was not a trifle of what ages would see brought to the surface. Thorin could be content with that, and perhaps even could come to stand dealing with the elves as long as it came with a hefty profit.

He’d liked the Hobbit’s term for it - _Price Gouging_ Bilbo had called it. It brought to mind the lovely image of stabbing an elf every time he sold or traded something to Thranduil’s folk. 

After so many years wandering aboveground, however, Thorin found himself restless even amongst the heaped treasure of his kingdom. He was honest enough to admit that his youth had often found him wandering out to the gate’s high watchtowers and battlements even before the trouble, but now the occasional need for open space was stronger than before. Yet another reminder that he was not the king his father or his grandfather had raised him to be anymore, but one tempered more by wild and forge rather than royal guidance.

“Brother,” Dís’ appearance behind him distracted Thorin from his distant examination of the shadow that was Mirkwood. “thank you for keeping my sons safe.”

“They kept themselves safe, I almost got them slaughtered.” Thorin huffed, turning to look at his sister. “You raised fine sons.”

“I didn’t do so alone, and their father was dead before they knew him. If anything kept them alive _after_ they followed you it was your training.” Dís countered, then paused. “Well, except for the bow. I don’t know who to give credit for Kíli’s marksmanship.”

“I can’t blame you, I never could hit the broad side of a fleeing Oliphant with an arrow.” Thorin allowed, snorting, and for a moment he was a young dwarf again and his sister had escaped her tutors to follow his cloak-tail about and tease him.

“For which the Oliphants were thankful, I’m sure.” Dís drawled, the joke so old it creaked like mannish engineering as words not spoken to one another in nearly a century were dredged up and the grit and dust of a lifetime scraped off.

“Truly,” Dís’ voice was barely audible, the gravel of it merging with the soft breeze whistling across the mountainside. “you’ve brought us home, my brother, my King.”

The words sank slowly into his skin, like water into stone, and Thorin closed his eyes to better appreciate the pain of memories and the pleasure of victory.

_My father my Prince.  
My Grandfather, my King.  
My sister, my Princess.  
My brother, my Prince.  
My brother my King_

Yes. Home.

“Now, tell me about your games with Thranduil and how you’ve traded blows for more kingly revenge.” Dís demanded, coming to the edge of the newly-started battlements with him and nudging his arm with her shoulder. “The letter you sent with Gloin spoke of fun, but you are obviously not having any now. With everything you’ve accomplished, what’s got you brooding _now_?”

Thorin’s mood folded in on itself like a book blown shut in the wind, and Dís eventually gave up chiding him and stood with him in silence for a while yet, in the dark. As she turned to go, the silken length of her beard brushing against his shoulder with the movement, Thorin let out a breath and spoke.

“Grandmother was right.” Thorin grunted, heaving himself off the wall and turning to offer his sister his arm as a proper escort back into the mountain.

Dís looked dryly down at his arm, for courtly manners were long behind them both, but accepted the gesture if only for this one moment when being King and Princess felt as precious and as hard to catch and hold as minnows in a fast moving stream.

“As I do not remember her are you planning on telling me what she was right about?”

“No.”

SSSSSSSSSS

Of all the things Dwalin expected to find at the gate when the guards had sent up to him that there was a situation, it was not this. He’d expected another scuffle between some dwarf from the Iron Hills and one of their newly returned people, honestly. There hadn’t been too much of that, but there’d been some of it what with those returning from the Blue Mountains feeling they had first right to their old home and those who had fought in the Battle of Five Armies feeling they’d _earned_ it instead. Thorin was handling it well enough, though and Dwalin appreciated that his only task was breaking up the damned fights. Mahal spare him from having to actually make sense of the chalk-brained Dwarves who started the things.

Either way, Dwalin wasn’t expecting to walk through where the gates were finally being properly rebuilt to find Thorin’s elven game piece standing in front of him holding the reins to an annoyed looking gray horse! 

“Lady Isíl, this is a surprise.” Dwalin grunted, rummaging in the back of his brain for the manners Brída liked to remind him to use. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

Hmmm… Dwalin considered that last bit and decided his wife would probably say he’d gotten about halfway towards using him manners and given up. Ah well, he’d tried, that was surely good enough when an elf was involved.

“No, you haven’t.” The elf maiden agreed with that annoying serenity all elves held over the heads of other races like a carrot in front of a starving horse. Or, rather, she did until a surprisingly _stubborn_ expression flitted across her face and she cocked her head slightly to the side. “If I am still invited, however, I have brought gifts of welcome for the Princess Dís.”

“You’re still welcome.” Thorin’s amusement in the game seemed to be growing darker, but Thranduil’s ire had increased of late and that had pleased Dwalin’s friend and king immensely; though he wasn’t sure what to make of the elf maiden showing up without any kind of escort and with loaded saddlebags and a large package draped over her horse’s rump. “Dölan, care for the horse.”

Dwalin, however, took the opportunity presented by the elf removing the package and saddlebags from the horse to send one of his swifter men running down into the mines to tell Thorin what was happening.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin Oakenshield glared down at the dwarf in question with an expression that could have cracked granite from a hundred yards away. Balin, standing beside him, merely huffed out a sigh at the inevitability of the whole situation getting out of hand and gestured to Fíli. Fíli, however, was looking at his uncle for instructions. Kíli was elsewhere being fussed over by his mother rather than trailing his brother about for once.

“Fíli, take over.” Thorin grunted, handing the abacus he’d been holding and the large sheaf of papers that went with it to his heir. “Listen to Balin and have Orí transcribe your writing later.”

Fíli smirked at the reference to his particularly atrocious handwriting and moved up to stand by Balin with only a hint of nervousness in his expression. Balin, in turn, patted the young dwarf prince upon the shoulder. Then he got down to the business of helping Fíli learn how gold mining was different than tearing iron ore from the Blue Mountains, and how gem mining was different from that.

“The elf maid is here, alone?” Thorin scowled down at the messenger and shook his head, muttering underneath his breath. “Why?”

This was likely some kind of elvish trap. Perhaps it was a way for Thranduil to end their standoff over the courtship by claiming inappropriate behavior on his part? That seemed most likely to Thorin’s way of thinking, but it was equally possible that some other trickery was afoot. 

“She, um, said she wished to bring a gift of welcome to your sister the Princess?” The young dwarf warrior offered uncomfortably as he struggled to keep up with Thorin’s much longer stride.

Thorin scowled at the thought, but couldn’t dismiss that as an actual reason the maid herself would come, separate from that pallid, cursed, king of elves who ruled her. The entire reason she’d come to his attention when he’d started this game at Thranduil’s expense had been that she’d tried to be decently polite. Not that he found much decent about elven customs, but at least she’d made some effort to acknowledge his kingship with a decent throne gift. So it was possible that this was just what it appeared; Isíl being polite, and her reason for being alone was that the trip was not sanctioned by her king.

That thought was not welcome, though the idea that Thranduil was being embarrassed by a disobedient subject treating Thorin’s kin with respect should have pleased him. His mood unimproved Thorin went to find out what exactly was going on.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

Dís, daughter of Thrain, son of Thror, ran her hands covetously over the fine fabrics spread over the work table in her receiving room. It had been long decades since she’d dressed as a princess of Erebor, and the amount of effort Thorin had gone to in order to stock her wardrobe with fine robes and gowns had made her as fiercely proud as the jewels from their own labors her sons had insisted upon decking her with. Dwarves were fierce in all their loves and Dís looked forward to doing the same for her sons. Kíli would look grand in the garnet-toned velvet under Dís’ fingers right now, and the heavy emerald green woolen damask peeking from behind it. 

Beyond that, though, were the fine embroidery threads she’d been given laying in tight spools inside a pearl-inlaid box, and a smaller box filled with blanks of amber. Dwarves seldom worked with amber because of its softness, but Dís thought the red and golden hues of the soft stone would favor her elder son very well, and it was obviously a meaningful gift for other reasons. For the elf maiden in question wore a necklace of red-gold amber beads around her neck over her breeches, long-tunic, and vest and giving a gift of something you covet always makes the gift more valuable.

“Your gifts are generous,” Dís looked speculatively upwards at the tall figure standing beside her. “However, may I ask why they were not presented during the festivities surrounding my arrival?”

“Somehow I did not receive an invitation, or notification, of your official welcoming, Princess Dís.” The young elf maiden replied and Dís heard something familiar buried underneath the level quality all elven voices possessed.

“How strange.” Dís wracked her brain, trying to track down the tone. “Perhaps you should take that up with your king? It seems like shoddy work that you shouldn’t have received one from the message riders.”

The elf couldn’t know it, of course, but there were few worse insults amongst the dwarves than accusing someone of shoddy workmanship. Though the word really lost a lot of its fearsomely obscene gloss once you’d put it into Westron.

“I shall do so at my first opportunity, I assure you.” The girl replied, her voice as prim as her posture and Dís had to work very hard not to smile. 

“Indeed.” Dís allowed herself to smile now, but channeled every last ounce of the civility she’d learned in her forgotten youth into it as she gestured to the table and chairs at the center of her receiving room’s seating arrangements. There was information to be had from this elven maid and Dís was going to get it. “Please, though, you must be tired from the ride here and hungry.”

If the girl looked visibly relieved at the bread and cheese sitting in front of her Dís only found it more amusing. She’d heard the story of how Bombur had invented his latest delicacy after all. 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

By the time Thorin had been found, informed of Isíl’s presence, and made his way to the Royal Apartments he found Kíli waiting for him and the entryway wearing a broad grin that could only mean mischief.

“Mother wants you to wait in my quarters so she can speak to you.” Kíli attempted to bounce on his toes as he used to and Thorin felt his heart lurch in pain as his nephew nearly toppled over, only to right himself by slapping one palm against the wall. “Anyway, she’s been talking to your elf for about an hour and I’m supposed to go in and take over while she brings you up to date on everything she’s found out or something.”

Thorin resisted the urge to slap his hand over his face at this news. Dís was a force to be reckoned with – as was only proper for a daughter of Thrain – and he didn’t need to add her interference in what was rapidly becoming a more complex situation than he’d wanted it to be. Not that he could do much to stop it; he’d known that she was going to get involved as soon as she’d questioned him on the ramparts and he’d been unable to give her a satisfactory answer.

“She is not my elf, Kíli.” Thorin growled, even as the hair on the back of his neck threatened to rise in protest.

Their grandmother had been right, though. Only the most foolish of dwarves claimed _anything_ in jest; they were too likely to end up coveting despite themselves no matter what their future denials were on the subject. He still wanted to take something from Thranduil and time and pleasure and pride… They should be enough. They would have to be.

“Since when has mother been a spy, Uncle?” Kíli, thank Mahal, was still grinning irrepressibly even with his near-fall. 

“All females are spies, Kíli.” Thorin snorted, holding his expression as grim as possible as Kíli’s grin wavered and was replaced by a flicker of embarrassment over the other female elf of their “acquaintance”. “The sooner you learn that, the better.”

Thorin allowed himself a sigh at the entire situation once he was sitting in his nephew’s quarters with a mug of ale, waiting on his sister. Whatever she was up to at least he could count on her finding things out. She’d always been more politic than he was, and females of all species talked to one another a great deal. Dís was bound to have extracted some kind of useful information from Isíl by the time she joined him in the room.

Dís, true to her nature, walked smartly into Kíli’s quarters, paused to frown at Kíli’s unmade bed and a few articles of clothing and parchments forming drifts here and there, and then walked directly behind her brother to cuff him smartly across the back of his head.

“Ow.” Thorin replied mildly and reached up to brush the hair that had flipped forward over his forehead back off of his face.

“Shame on you, whatever age that elf has she’s barely as old as _Kíli_ in any of the ways that matter.” Dís stated firmly as she held her hand out and took a seat across from her brother in the chair Fíli usually occupied out of the only two places to sit in Kíli’s quarters. 

In true Kíli fashion he’d left the suite of room’s given to him as a Prince of Erebor utterly empty except for the bedchamber and even that only had a rough table, several trunks, a bed, and two chairs to its name. The table, no less, was covered in mostly clean crockery and a large keg of ale while the parchments associated with his princely duties were stacked with dirty clothes and spare weaponry. Thorin couldn’t wait until Dís took it up with her son; it was one thing to ignore your elder brother or your Uncle or even your king. It was another thing entirely to ignore your _mother_ when she told you to clean your quarters and show some pride in your rank.

Dís was obviously waiting for a response to that comment, though, so Thorin shrugged at her. As far as he was concerned Isíl’s age was a plus. She was still naive enough not to take issue at his behavior, and to care little for the feuds of her elders. 

“Typical.” Dís sighed, but went on briskly enough once her motherly wrath was satisfied; she wouldn’t have expected more than acknowledgement from her brother. “You’re aware that she isn’t of Thranduil’s people, correct?”

“I gather she was born in the Gray Havens, mostly raised in the enchanted wood. It makes her slightly easier to tolerate, as elves go, than she would be if she were of Thranduil’s folk. Not that that’s saying much.” Thorin grunted, nodding and smirking. “Apparently Círdan the Shipwright is dunning the Elf King mercilessly over this horrid mess he’s gotten his innocent young kinswoman into.”

“Actually, as I gather, Círdan the Shipwright has gone directly past dunning and straight to outright disgust.” Dís snorted, and her lips twitched. “Apparently the last letter deemed Thranduil, _“Inappropriate and untrustworthy as a guardian”_ and _“lacking as a leader in any situation requiring diplomacy or tact”_ over the whole nightmare.”

“Not to mention,” Dís stated over the cruelly delighted laughter Thorin found bubbling up out of his chest. “Elrond of Rivendell’s letter to the King asking what in the world is going on, since he’s finally caught wind of it. Though Isíl seems to be of the idea that the Half-Elven lord is just baiting Thranduil because he’s, and I quote, _“Like that now and then.”_.” 

Thorin was half-fallen out of the chair, the scars from his new injuries and recently torn and healed stomach muscles protesting painfully, laughing deeply when Dís’ next statement killed his mirth. 

“Which is why Círdan apparently demanded his kinswoman be returned to his authority in the Gray Havens immediately.” Dís went on. “And proving that even elves are fools when they are young, the girl gathered up a gift for me and took to her horse to come here in a huff when she overheard it being spoken of by some servant in the stables.”

Thorin was on his feet, growling at the Elf King’s presumption that he could simply end this with the excuse of a disapproving relative, and the knowledge that by dwarven tradition he could indeed do just that, before he caught Dís’ gaze and realized he’d fallen into his sister’s trap. Glaring down at her he resumed his seat and grunted for her to keep talking. Predictably she reached up and stroked her beard in thought instead, the jeweled beads she’d worked into it that morning glittering as if they were joining her in thought.

“I’ll let you get the rest out of her yourself, but I want some answers from you now.” Thrain’s daughter demanded of her brother. “Thorin, it’s all well and good to make Thranduil suffer. I’ll enjoy seeing that as much as any, but I worry for you. Is this amusement worth it?”

Thorin had no intention of answering that.

“If you won’t answer me, at least speak to Dwalin about it.” Dís knew him too well, as usual. 

“Aye.” Thorin finally allowed, standing and helping his sister back to her feet. “For now let me go relieve your youngest of his diplomatic duties.”

SSSSSSSSSS

“Really, _three_ mountain trolls?” Isíl perched carefully on the edge of her low stone seat, utterly fascinating. “However did you get away?”

“Well, it wasn’t much of anything.” The dwarven prince buffed his knuckles against his tunic and smirked. “We couldn’t beat ‘em by main force since they’d taken us by surprise the way they had, but it just took a sharp mind to think to delay them until sunrise.”

“Well, it was definitely inspired, distracting them with ways to cook your own people.” Isíl allowed, impressed at the ingenuity of Thorin’s nephews even as she kept turning over the one sticky part of the narrative in her mind. “How on earth did they manage to sneak up on you in the first place, though? I’ve never heard of mountain trolls being stealthy….”

“They aren’t.” The dwarven king’s voice echoed behind them and Isíl – who was not yet familiar enough with the tread of certain dwarves to know who had been approaching the door; the King or his sister – barely refrained from jumping guiltily in her seat. 

Kíli didn’t manage to avoid twitching like that at all and he looked…. suspiciously _caught_ as he pushed unsteadily upwards onto his feet; both flesh and steel. 

“My Lady Isíl.” Thorin bowed his head shallowly to her and Isíl rose to curtsey deeply to the King Under the Mountain.

He’d been less merry during her last few visits as it was, and those had been some time ago. Isíl still wasn’t sure of the wisdom she’d shown in coming to Erebor at all. She’d merely been so angry that she couldn’t remain in Mirkwood a moment longer. Not without doing something unwise and childish like running up to her king and demanding he stop interfering with her life. Yes, she had the right to conduct a courtship any way she chose as all elves did and only the closest of kin could interfere and rank be damned, but this wasn’t precisely a real courtship, was it?

“Your majesty.” Isíl smoothed her hands over the edges of her tunic and leather riding vest. “Princess Dís.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Isíl and thank you for the fine gifts.” Dís nodded at her and Isíl felt a bit better at the lack of hostility in Dís’ dark eyes. 

Not many of the dwarves looked at her with the dislike and disgust they looked on others of her kind with any longer. She supposed her cooperation – was it cooperation? She knew she was cooperating but what did the dwarves really think? If nothing else King Thorin’s jest at Thranduil’s expense was well enough known that her presence reminded them of amusing things rather than painful ones. Or at least Isíl felt it was likely so given that she heard no truly cruel whispers following her about, if a lot of the sort that were less-than-kind were likely enough to be said.

It didn’t actually bother her that much to hear the dwarves say cruel things about the elves of Mirkwood, nor all elves. In offering not even the least of aid Isíl was beginning to feel that the King of the Greenwood _had_ somehow shamed them. Avoiding a dragon’s wrath was one thing, sentencing the injured, weak, or the children of even an enemy to a horrible death was dishonorable. Doing it to an ally was inexcusable. 

What Isíl failed to understand was why he’d done so. Thranduil was neither a cruel king nor an overly prideful one amongst his own people. He was well known for merriment and was respected for having fair judgment in most cases. It didn’t make sense in so many ways and Isíl preferred to have a well-ordered world!

“You are more than welcome, Princess.” Isíl replied politely, grateful that Dís had received her gifts happily. “I was honored to give them.”

Just because she knew her fabric’s quality didn’t mean any skill could make a gift from someone you would rather just drop dead pleasant, and while Isíl had never developed a large jewelry collection she’d always enjoyed swimming. Joining the elves who went down to the rivers and creeks in the Greenwood to look for agates and amber amongst the river rocks was an excellent excuse to spend hours alone, in the water, unharrassed by anyone. As for the Amber, well, it washed down from the Gray Mountains at the beginning of the Forest River, and while it tended to end up in the deeper parts of the rivers, Isíl liked to dive. Even the most determined elf couldn’t talk or sing to you if you were six feet under water!

At which point Dís left and she was alone with the dwarf king for the first time. Isíl thought it was only natural to be nervous at the intensity in his dark, fierce eyes.

“So, you’re kin are calling you back to the West.” The dwarf rumbled up at her, not taking a seat or gesturing for her to do the same.

Though why he’d want her to stand there towering over him she didn’t know.

“For an elf who is of age only a parent can interfere with their courtship.” Isíl’s irritation, neatly put away thanks to the dwarven princess’ understanding conversation and nature, bubbled back to the surface and she scoffed. “Círdan has no right to order me back to his care, nor have I been in his care for the better part of my lifetime. If - _if_ Thranduil wishes to order me out of his realm he can, but he cannot order my affairs or my life outside of our laws and customs. Even the authority of kings only goes so far.”

That earned her a look that was blatantly speculative, left her feeling a great deal like some healer’s dissection subjects must feel, and might have possibly been a bit amused. Isíl didn’t know the dwarf well enough to guess, but either way she was done trying to please the kings and lords that surrounded her. She was kinless and alone in Middle Earth and she was tired of having everyone willing to protect her in life and nobody willing to _help_ her. 

With what she did not know, nor was she precisely confident of the focus of her rebellion, but her choice to do as she pleased was something she was very firm on.

She was a year past a hundred, a master weaver amongst elven kind, and had supported herself for nearly two decades on no-one’s charity. She was _going_ to make her own decisions and that was that!

Right?

“Indeed.” Thorin Oakenshield gestured towards the chair she’d been perched on before and took the one that his sister had abandoned. 

Dimly, through much stone, Isíl thought she could hear Dís’ voice again, scolding her son for having a messy room. That, however, was not as important as what the dwarf-king was saying. She tried to regain her splintered focus along with her temper.

“What exactly is the purpose of your rebellion?” 

“Excuse me?” Isíl frowned down at the dwarf, who was now smirking at her.

“What do you _want_ , Lady Isíl?” Pure dwarven bluntness at its best; having not faced it more than a handful of times in her life could she be blamed for accidentally meeting it with more of the same?

“I’m not sure, but as I haven’t found it in three different elven kingdoms I doubt I will ever find it if I don’t try and look.” Isíl confessed and was surprised when, after a long silence, she got a somber nod in return from the king. “May I ask you a question?”

“You just did.” The dwarf snorted and Isíl barely held back the urge to roll her eyes at him.

“Another one, then.”

“Yes.” Thorin sat back in his chair and nodded once and Isíl reflected that this place could use at least one piece of furniture that didn’t leave her knees up underneath her chin.


	4. Chapter 4

“Why are you doing this?” Isíl asked, then saw the king tense, hoped she hadn’t accidentally called his hospitality into question, and tried to qualify what she’d said. “I mean, it’s obvious this courtship is to annoy Thranduil, but… I’m sorry, I just don’t understand the ways of kings.”

It was as lame a statement as a badly shot deer limping through the forest after some human had misfired their bow, and Isíl felt legions of ancestors sighing at her glaring lack of the expected elven talent with words. Normally she wasn’t so out of sorts, but it wasn’t as though her life had been precisely normal since the dwarves had retaken their kingdom!

“We’re confusing creatures.” A breath of honest amusement shined for a moment in a brief flash of white teeth through the king’s dark beard, then vanished to be replaced by burning eyes and growling intensity. “Do you understand why yours left us to suffer after centuries of being allies?”

“No,” Isíl offered quietly, “I don’t.”

The silence that followed was heavy and smothering and Isíl tried to fill it with words, though she knew that was probably a mistake.

“He should have at least given you food and medicine, and let you pass through the shorter road west, towards the mountains.” Isíl said, quietly. “I don’t know why he didn’t.”

“Because he is a coward.” Thorin answered and Isíl didn’t contradict him. 

You couldn’t argue with hate, and if half of what she’d heard whispered about how the dwarves had suffered in the wilderness after Smaug had come was true then the hate was justified; if hate ever had anything to do with what was just. Isíl didn’t fancy herself wise enough to know the answer to that, but she knew the truth of its existence. Someday Thorin Oakenshield might perhaps forgive some of her race for their abandonment of his people, but he would _never_ forgive Oropher’s son. Not if he had all of the years and all of the ages to do it.

“I have duties today that cannot be put off.” The dwarf king stood again, and Isíl rose with him, wondering at the sudden change in subject and obvious dismissal because, really, what was she supposed to do _now_? “However, I shall make arrangements for the day after tomorrow so that we can see each other again, if you are in agreement?”

“I am.” Isíl agreed and got a single nod, sending silver-threaded black hair swaying and then he was gone. 

It was only after she’d gotten out from under those fierce eyes that she realized she hadn’t really gotten any kind of answer about anything from the king, and still had _no idea_ what was going on.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Dwalin, son of Fundin, looked at his king and very seriously delivered his assessment of the situation.

“Thorin, you are fucked.”

“Thank you for that, Dwalin, as always I appreciate your honesty.” Thorin grunted darkly at his friend and got an unusually helpless shrug in return. 

There were few situations where the warrior standing next to Thorin was willing to admit helplessness. Anything involving small children had always been one. As had been evidenced by the fact that until Thorin’s nephews were of an age to pick up wooden practice weapons Dwalin had generally simply stared at the little badgers in complete perplexity as they crawled all over him and demanded stories.

Thorin, who had been promoted from uncle to father-figure at the death of Dís’ husband some few months before Kíl’s birth, couldn’t wait until Dwalin became a father himself. It promised decades of future amusement if those old memories were anything to go by.

“It’s all I’ve got.” Dwalin defended his statement. “Have you spoken to my brother about this mess?”

“I will.” Thorin would speak to Balin, eventually, so it wasn’t truly a lie. “I wanted to speak to you _first_.”

Dwalin scratched his bald head and sat down on a convenient rock. The itch to move had come to Thorin again, and he’d decided to scratch it despite the fact that its existence irritated him. He’d always thought that peace would come to him with the return of his birthright, but now he was forced to admit that there was some part of his soul that longed to move. Not wander, never that again, but at least to have a task at hand that gave him room to spread out and stretch.

His work inside the mountain, in rebuilding his kingdom and home mostly filled that, and gave him pride and happiness. Still Thorin could admit he’d needed this long walk to the far side of the mountain, and the climb up the tumbled rocks and boulders to stare east across the tangled scrubland and rock-strewn heath only occasionally broken by patches of forest that separated them from their kin in the Iron Hills. It made him itch to discuss defenses and future hunting parties. They’d need to lay in stores for winter and he had no desire to trade with the elves for more than the essentials and the men of Laketown and Dale would be scavenging everything local themselves. Daín didn’t claim any of the land between them so it is where his people would have to go and begin the work of not only building and defending, but sustaining their reclaimed mountain, and they would have to do so soon.

 _“And now I’m stalling.”_ Thorin thought wryly of the last time he’d stalled over contemplation of a female and felt his lips twitch upwards into a smirk.

“You’re thinking of Mnim aren’t you?” Dwalin asked, his own lips twisting upwards into a grin far more youthful than had been seen on either of their faces of a long while, and Thorin chuckled and nodded in agreement. “Heh, your grandfather never could understand what you found so offensive about the girl. She came with a good dowry, her father was head of one of our larger clans, and she had a _fine_ beard.”

“Aye, and the personality of a badger with a rotten tooth.” Thorin snorted and Dwalin waved a hand at his statement. 

“She wasn’t that bad.” Dwalin maintained, and then broke out into a rough guffaw. “Or she wasn’t before she set herself after you.”

“No,” Thorin acknowledged, laughing along with his old friend. “you’re right. She wasn’t that bad _before_ the failed courtship our families set up… It doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t want her or any other wife.”

“Then why do you want this elf?” Dwalin asked, his tone bluntly curious and amazed, rather than horrified or exhausted as his brother’s was likely to become. “I mean, I won’t call it unnatural or somesuch because it _does_ happen every now and then, and nobody controls the hammer that strikes the heart, but… Well, what is behind it?”

“Possession?” Thorin mused, and then shrugged and shook his head, scowling as he dwelled on the word and didn’t find it quite to his liking despite how it fit. “I don’t know, it does not feel like affection.”

Dwalin, in turn, struck flint to steel as he lit his pipe, and leaned back against the rocks in thought. When Thorin took out his own pipe in turn Dwalin politely passed his over so that his King and kinsman could light his own. Thorin took a couple of deep drags of the weed burning within and blew the smoke out of his mouth in a slow stream, savoring the luxury. Laketown’s tobacco barns were set far back from the lake to avoid rot and dampness, so it was one luxury where trade would not be restricted by need.

“Well, possession as good a reason as any.” Dwalin nodded in satisfaction at Thorin’s response. “If you’re going to claim something as yours, though, it’s better to like it if possible. If there’s some hate mixed in that’ll make whatever you’ve got as much as a burden as a treasure, as you well know. I mean, do you feel anything fond for the pointy eared girl? It would be better if you could.”

Thorin mulled the question over and indulged his bad habbit of chewing on the stem of his pipe. His tutors had broken him of the habit of chewing on his stylus’ before he’d had chin whiskers to brush, but by the time he’d taken up the pipe nobody was that concerned with his princely manners anymore. Not that he’d ever had Dís diplomatic nature of Frerín’s likablilty. Politics would always be something he would have to work at, while ruling and getting a job done came as naturally to Thorin as breathing or digging. 

“I’ve not been much concerned with _her_ so to speak.” Thorin shrugged. “This hasn’t been – and still isn’t – about her. Thranduil deserves more than a lesson in pride and loss, but if it’s all I can give him I want him to suffer it in full. After what he did-.”

Dwalin snorted at the sentiment even as he nodded in dark agreement, and Thorin threw his cousin a glare before settling more fully onto his own comfortable granite perch and squinting at what might have been a herd of wild aurochs in the distance. There were still many of them around in the heath around the mountain, though they were fierce and dangerous as well as huge. One auroch, however, could feed quite a few dwarves for quite a bit of time, not to mention provide them a lot of good leather. If they could be rounded up without their bull, too, the men of Dale could likely tame at least some of the calves enough to add to their herds. A cow or two might be docile enough to handle as well.

“Those look like Aurochs to you?” Thorin asked and Dwalin immediately followed his King’s pointing finger to squint in the distance.

“I can’t tell at this distance. Could be aurochs, could be anything with four legs that doesn’t move like a warg.” Dwalin grunted in the annoyance of generations of dwarves past when faced with their own myopia. “I can understand her being yours now, any dwarf can understand accidentally laying claim to something and then having to keep it, that’s just life, but before you let this get any farther under your skin you might at least try and figure out if you can tolerate the elf maiden, or if she can tolerate you as more than some tween’s rebellion. After all, the entire thing ends on her say-so, I gather.”

Thorin grunted his annoyed acknowledgement of the point and squinted at the herd in the distance. Dís was right, though, he felt better for having spoken to Dwalin. His oldest friend had no time nor patience for politics or intrigue, and his plain spoken advice was often a comfort to Thorin when Dís simply cared too much and he had no taste for Balin’s wisdom. 

“Let’s go back to the gate for ponies and some spears.” Thorin stood. “Whatever is out there looks edible and I feel like killing something.”

“Aye, we’ll round up a few likely dwarves while we’re at it so they can do the gutting.” Dwalin added and Thorin paused and then shared a slow, rotten grin with his oldest friend.

Because that was another privilege of rank that neither had enjoyed in decades and, while neither would shy from it, it would be nice to let someone younger handle gutting and skinning whatever game they took, wouldn’t it? Finally, as they walked with the wind at their backs, Thorin said what he’d spent the most time confused and angry over in the last day.

“The elf maiden disapproves of what Thranduil did to us.” Thorin grunted, and then snorted in something a shade to dark for true amusement. “And I do not know whether to be angry that our suffering ranks no more than _disapproval_ and _confusion_ from an elf barely out of childhood or gratified that perhaps Thranduil’s decision was obeyed, but not universally popular.”

“Well, _that_ is too deep for me.” Dwalin nodded in deep thought at that, his expression as dark as his King’s, and then nodded slowly. “Did she at least say the pallid bastard was _wrong_?”

“Aye.” Thorin acknowledged but still found it impossible to sort his thoughts on Isíl out as old hate once more intruded onto new problems.

“Well,” Dwalin on the other hand mulled over this additional fact contemplatively before giving a nod on the subject. “that’s at least something. Never heard one elf call another wrong before within earshot of a dwarf.”

Thorin grunted his acknowledgement, but once again found it impossible to put revenge aside to consider the other matter that had become intertwined with it.

SSSSSSSSSSS

Thranduil would later berate himself for going from speaking to his son to speaking to Isíl about her choice to disobey his instructions about leaving his palace. He should have waited and spoken to her when his temper was his own, and not frayed with grief at his losses. It was enough to bring him to his knees still, and difficult to hold back his tears in public, that his two eldest sons had fallen in battle. To have to stand now and listen to Legolas berate himself for courting Isíl without getting to know her had been too much. Thranduil’s own failure to guard two of his sons’ lives and his youngest’s happiness lay like a shadow on his heart at the meeting.

He’d berated the girl as she stood before his throne, and then stood demanding she answer him. He would not soon forget her words, Thranduíl acknowledged, and few others would either. Not when she had stood in front of him for so long, staring at some point beyond his shoulder and her expression shifting from barely restrained tears and the hurt of an elfling to a far colder, more adult haunter. 

_“My father’s father awoke under the light of the stars and followed Tata, becoming amongst the first of the Ñoldor.”_ The elf-maiden spoke calmly and clearly. _“Though he was no great Lord, he was acknowledged a great warrior, and followed Finarfin when he returned to Aman and repudiated the first kin-slaying; only coming to Middle Earth at the slaying of his brother in **Dagor-nuin-Giliath**.”_

 _“My mother,”_ The young elf maiden went on, her face grave and proud as she stood there in front of his throne. _“was separated by ten-generations of elves from those who first woke, but those ten generations ago her foremother awoke there yet with her brother, Círdan beside her. In time her kin wed and produced Elwë, called Thingol, who became your king, and though it is separated by generations and my family is one of workmen and not royalty the same blood flows through my veins.”_

 _“And yet despite **all this**_ not one of our kind – not Círdan, who was amongst our first and is my closest kinsman – nor any other, be they king or carpenter, can tell another elf whom to love. That is our way.” The girl’s blue eyes glinted like twilight in the dimly lit great hall. _“You may send me away if you choose, my king, and I will obey without question or complaint, but neither you nor any but my father or mother may dissuade me from my **choice**.”_

 _“Would you make Luthíen’s choice, then, for a dwarf? Of the same kind as the very kin who you invoke were murdered by.”_ Thranduil had demanded, the name of Thingol ringing harshly in his ears with old memories of dwarven betrayal and greed. _“To whom you are nothing but a pawn?”_

 _“Luthíen chose a man; I cannot say what choice awaits me should I choose a dwarf. Some secrets only time holds the answer to.”_ The girl had left off, and from that elven proverb she would not be budged. 

Which left Thranduil with nothing to do but sit alone in his office with his abacus and his regrets. He regretted not being more sure of Isíl’s nature before he granted his approval upon Legolas’ choice to court her. His son’s hurt, to his relief, seemed great but not such to put him in peril of fading. There was still light in his son’s eyes, and Thranduil belived that when their shared grief over Legolas’ brothers’ deaths and Isíl ’s not returning Legolas’ feelings passed Legolas would love again, and more truly. He no longer feared that this grief would cost him his youngest and last son.

He was not heartless, though, no matter what the dwarves’ troubles and youthful folly was leading the girl to think. He knew that kings and elves possessed every ounce of potential for greed and folly that the other races did. He recalled Feanör’s oath and the curse that had followed it, and he had seen his father disobey the orders of Gil-galad to the suffering and loss of so many of their people. Thranduil knew when he had transgressed, and he regretted it as did any natural creature. 

His own anger at the death of his first king, and the glimpse as a young elf he had caught of Thingol’s mangled body and Melian’s grief had branded his soul as deeply as Thrain’s son was branded with hatred for Thranduil himself. Thranduil wouldn’t seek to tear blood from stone in either his own case or from the dwarf; they were what they were. Peace was all Thranduil planned to try and get from Erebor now; peace for his people and prosperity for all. At this juncture friendship was too much to ask from any involved.

Which was, of course, what Thranduil truly feared. Elves married for love and love alone, and if in her loneliness somehow that child had attached her heart to the dwarven king… A hand more used to gripping a poet’s pen or a warrior’s sword rubbed over Thranduil’s face and the elf-king reached to compose another letter to Círdan. In it he would address the fears they both shared and accept humbly whatever blame the shipwright cast upon him for his part in it. A little humility would do him good, though he’d kiss the damned bearded midget who had started this mess before he admitted it to the likes of Elrond Half-Elven.

For he had few illusions left after all his time on Arda, and surely Thrain’s son would break Isíl’s heart if she truly offered it, and when he did that she would face the death all their kind feared. Before the year was out Thranduil would harden himself to having to send a rider out bearing Círdan the news his young kinswoman had faded as a result of the angry machinations of a wronged dwarf. They had long feared that fate for her as it was, for though she claimed happiness they could all see that the light of her fëa had grown thin around the edges at her parents deaths and never truly recovered. Círdan spoke of it and feared it, Galadríel had spoken of it in the letter she had sent to him with the child upon her arrival in the Greenwood, and now Thranduil would face the fact that he had failed to prevent it. 

Never a coward despite the accusations of others, Thranduil wrote the first draft of his letter of condolence to Círdan that day as well, and put it away to amend as this situation went on. He could do no more than send the eldest of his race yet on Middle Earth kind words when the inevitable happened, but he refused to send Círdan less than the kindest words he could find. If working on it was a torture, then that was the duty of a king.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl was dreadfully tired. Not exhausted from honest labors, as that was uncommon for elves and she enjoyed hard work more than most, but from confrontation. She’d supposed that confronting the king and proving to everyone she was an adult would be somehow better than not doing it, but she’d been wrong. She’d said what she’d wanted and she’d said it well; the eloquence she felt she lacked so often had come to her when she most needed.

If only it had made her feel _better_ , though!

Instead of feeling freed she just felt spent. She wanted to lay down and sleep, put aside her work, and just rest for a while. For the first time in years Isíl wished she was back in Lothlorien for the peace alone. When she’d left there to live with her aunt – though her aunt had in turn been as absent as her grandmother – she’d looked forward to leaving the mallorns behind simply for the change that going to the Greenwood offered. 

Now it seemed almost like too much effort to go saddle Telia and ride to Erebor to meet their king. She’d argued for the right to court Thorin, but she still didn’t honestly feel like this was an actual courtship. The King Under the Mountain hadn’t even answered her questions!

Despite feeling foolish and young she still did what she said she would do. She went to the stable, saddled her horse, and took the road to Lake Town and beyond. Not knowing what the dwarf king had planned for the day she had at least remembered to pack a change of clothing before she left. Not knowing what the dwarf king had planned for the day also meant she’d decided on a different set of accessories this time.

Wryly, Isíl wondered if he’d also look down upon _these_ as he had upon the simple necklace of amber beads she’d worn a few days before.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin strode out of the gates, completed at a pace that even in Thror’s time dwarves would have marveled at, and paused to admire his peoples’ work. He didn’t know it, and would have scoffed if someone had said it to him, but the nod of satisfaction and the stern smile he gave the workmen pounding sand between the last of the new cobbles was something the workers’ sons would on day brag about. As it was Thorin turned back to Balin and the paper held in his advisor’s hands; there were a few last details to be seen to before he turned everything over to Fíli for the day.

His other nephew was already at the stables, keen to pick out the best ponies as they would be riding beside an elven horse today. Kíli had made a great deal of progress – beyond what the healers had expected him to make in a year, much as Thorin himself had made – and Dís had pointed out to Thorin that it was dangerous to keep him cooped up any longer. Kíli had, Thorin was grateful, inherited the warmth of spirit that Thror had been so well-known for before the gold-sickness had taken that from him, but he had also somehow inherited his Uncle’s intemperate nature. He needed action and if not given any he would surely find some he was not anywhere near healed enough for.

The healers had given him leave to pick up a bow again, and a hunting excursion from the back of a pony was far safer for him right now than attending work in the mines. Until Thorin was sure of Kíli’s balance on that prosthetic foot he was going to have to find jobs for his second heir that kept him away from long falls and deep chasms. The pity was that Fíli – atrocious handwriting aside – was much more suited to the minutiae of kingship than his brother. Kíli was very good when it came to speaking with others, but right now Erebor was in a situation politically where Thorin did not feel comfortable sending one so young to speak with many of their kin, and while sending Kíli to speak to Bard had worked well so far there were only so many occasions where their dealings with men called for one of Durin’s blood to be present.

Thorin was turning this over in his mind – while wondering if he shouldn’t add more dwarves to their party than himself, Kíli, young Gimli, and Gloin – when he caught sight of the elf maiden. She was standing just out of the mountain’s shadow and looking contemplatively down at the clustered log houses standing in the ruins of Dale. Beside her the tall dappled horse she rode was searching out clumps of grass amidst the stony roadside as she held its reins. 

She was not dressed as she had been before. She was not wearing the loose gowns favored by what few female elves Thorin had seen, nor was she wearing the brown and mossy green riding gear she had shown up in to bring his sister her gifts. Instead she was wearing a long-sleeved tunic in silver-gray, and slate colored buckskin breeches covered by tall boots. The dark brown leather of the soft elven boots had a pattern of silver leaves worked in them where they clung to long, slender legs above her knees, and over the gray tunic she wore a pale blue surcoat worked around the edges in a pattern of stylized waves in white and dark blue. Over it all she wore a strange mossy-gray cloak with a deep hood and a green leaf-shaped clasp.

More surprising than this, though, was to see what she wore _with_ this garb, because the elf maiden had come armed with more than a long knife this time. The hunting knife, with its dark handle, was still at her belt, but on the opposite side a long elven sword hung. On her back was a long bow fashioned differently than those he’d seen used by Thranduil’s other elves, and made of a lighter wood with more carving. With it went a quiver of arrows, and at her wrists were the familiar dark leather vambraces favored by the wood elves of Mirkwood.

“Do elves usually go courting armed?” Balin asked curiously from where he stood beside his king.

“Do dwarves?” The elf-maiden asked in return as she turned from staring at the huts of men and gave a brief but respectful bow to Thorin and his advisor.

“Yes, actually, but one doesn’t always expect such civilized traditions to be widespread.” Balin offered back, his usual backhanded humor in full force.

Thorin was just relieved that Balin’s worry over the whole situation seemed to have melted into the usual state of exasperated trust that existed between them when Thorin refused to take the older dwarf’s advice. To both their surprise Isíl’s dark blue eyes tilted up at the corners in a surprised smile as she laughed at the dig. Did this female never laugh at anything normal? Since when was being covered in spider innards or being insulted something to giggle about? Dís would have boxed someone’s ears by now!

“I didn’t know what your king had planned, Master Balin,” The elf maiden replied. “so I decided to be prepared for anything.”

“Just as well,” Thorin grunted, annoyed that there was a conversation going on around him. “I hope you enjoy hunting prey with fewer legs than eight.”

“I do.” And now he got her attention. “Though I don’t often get the chance, your majesty.”

“Today you will.” Thorin grunted and then, to further his annoyance, realized he had nothing else to say. 

What in all the blazed was he supposed to talk to her about if he wasn’t gaining knowledge to use against her king or commenting on… what else had he ever commented on? Thorin simply couldn’t think of anything, and the only thing more annoying that _that_ was the knowledge that it didn’t make him want to tell her to just leave and forget the mess any more than he had felt like doing so a few days ago. He didn’t care for _her_ he didn’t think, but she was still something he saw as _his_ and, damn it… 

Fortunately for his pride that’s when Kíli rode up on his pony, leading Thorin’s own mount and with Gimli and Gloin following loyally on their sturdy beasts. 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl found herself glad that the wind over the plains to the east of the mountain had picked up. It was no howling wind, but the gusts were such that conversation on horseback was limited. She had no idea what to say, save to ask the king again what he was about, and she wasn’t going to do that in front of his subjects. She didn’t resent being the lever he was using to pry some revenge out of Thranduil, but she had a limit on how much of a joke she chose to be for the amusement of others.

There was a brief argument between Thorin and his nephew that Isíl had to struggle to keep from laughing at – apparently the dwarves of the mountain had taken a small herd of elk a few days ago as food but the king was still convinced he’d seen a herd of aurochs instead – but after Kíli was done making sly comments about how dwarven “aboveground eyesight” faded with time they mostly moved silently. Isíl found herself occupied more with the focus of the trip than the company anyway as the advantages of her eyesight and what were, by elven standards, her very meager tracking abilities were utilized by the king. Who might, it seemed, dislike elven kind, but was not at all afraid to bend anything at hand to his use as long as it offered an advantage.

“There was a small herd of aurochs here a few days ago.” Isíl confirmed, looking at the few signs on the hard, dry ground and prompting a pout from the king’s nephew. “They’ve gone southeast it looks like, probably into that scrubby little bit of wood in that gully down there since there’s a storm on the wind and probably a stream of pond down there as well.”

“Though,” Isíl added as four pairs of dark dwarven eyes focused on her, “the storm isn’t close. Can’t you hear it?”

Because at the very edge of her hearing, beyond even her sight, she could hear the whispers of grass gratified to be struck by rain after a dry spell. 

The dwarves had other methods of finding storms, however, because they _sniffed_ the air, turning into the wind much as Telia and the ponies were doing. Large noses wrinkled, frowns were produced, and grunting happened. Isíl didn’t know whether to be worried or amused by this quick conference, but in the end it was agreed upon that rain was coming.

“Probably sometime after nightfall.” Thorin grunted and then turned to her, his voice low and gravely in a way even deeper elven voices weren’t. “How far would you estimate it to be, Lady Isíl.”

Isíl had learned to weave, and endured decades of testing on the subject from the Lady of Loríen; she was hardly fazed by this little challenge.

“The same.” She agreed. “The grass here is impatient for it, but not worried the wind will turn it away, and the grass in the distance sounds satisfied so it must be a soaking rain as well. It would complain if it were just a sun-shower.”

“If you can talk to the grass, why not ask the trees whether or not the aurochs are actually under them?” The young dwarf they were calling Gimli asked sarcastically and Isíl turned around to get a better look at him and had to twist her neck into the movement so that the mass of her hair that was blowing in the wind was pushed behind her rather than into her face.

“Trees don’t care much for what walks beneath them as long as it is not an orc and it’s not wielding an axe.” Isíl explained a bit archly as she noted the thick, beard the auburn haired young dwarf sported. It was longer than Thorin’s, but didn’t have the even fullness that came with being regularly trimmed the way the king’s did, nor was it braided nor did it contain any baubles yet. Isíl tucked those facts away to ask questions about later since it was something new to learn and she still had no idea how to judge the age of dwarves past “young” and “mature”. 

“Even _trees_ hate orcs?” The king’s nephew sounded wickedly and fiercely delighted. “Hah!”

“ _Everyone_ hates Orcs, your Highness.” Isíl couldn’t help grin back at him, though she didn’t think it was a nice expression she was wearing. 

His good humor was infectious, and the fact that he maintained it even with how serious his injuries had been at the battle was no small thing. Resilliance like that was nice to see in anyone of any race honestly. Somehow she doubted that his uncle had had much to do with his good cheer growing up.

“As the trees aren’t any likelier to catch our pray than tell us where it is, let’s stop talking and go.” The dwarf introduced as Gloin grunted and cast a look at his king, who nodded in turn and raised an eyebrow at Isíl.

Isíl shrugged and waited for the king to do something, and if that was as much irritation at Thraín’s son as it was politeness in deferring to his rank, well, that was nobody’s business but hers!

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

_“May your spirit be born again to run free, and my thanks go with you as you died so I may thrive.”_

“That is not Sindarin.” Thorin observed, for while he had not been an obedient enough student in his youth to actually learn the language of their then-allies, he still held onto some random vocabulary and knew the sound of the language spoken by the Wood Elves well enough.

“No, it’s Quenya.” The elf-maiden blinked at him through the loose veil of wheat-blond hair thrown over her face by the wind and the motion of her bending to slit the throat of the huge auroch’s bull she’d felled.

Northern aurochs were a fierce breed that he’d never seen felled with arrows alone. Kíli’s beast – an immature bull for it had proven to be a bachelor herd, unfortunately - had continued to stagger under the four arrows he’d put into it until Gloin’s and his son’s axes had felled it fully. Thorin alone of the dwarves had claimed a kill for his own - another half-grown bull - because he had brought a hunting spear. Then again, he was the only one who had believed there were aurochs to find. Thorin, as a weapon’s smith, was actively curious about that bow now that he’d seen it felled by only two arrows from the thing. Not the least because he wouldn’t have thought anyone with such reedy arms could pull a bow with a decent draw weight. 

“My father was Ñoldorin, he essentially only had a chance to speak his mother tongue with me, and so he taught me well when I was very young.” The elf maiden offered, but then bent back to the huge bull and began to gut it. 

Thorin went about doing the same with his own kill, as they needed the meat and he hadn’t brought more dwarves along. He sent Gimli back to Erebor for more ponies with travois rigs to take the meat back and the dwarves whose responsibility was handling meat brought in by hunters. The bull the elf maiden was gutting – and not complaining about doing so he noted in more irritation than admiration – was an old beast and would be stringy, at least. Though his hands itched to claim the two great curving horns twisting from its skull; his nephews had chosen to celebrate their namedays together when Kíli was barely young enough to annunciate the word “yes” and agree with Fíli’s idea to do so. Matching battle horns from that beast would have made a grand gift. Thorin’s animal, for all that it was half-grown, didn’t sport an insignificant pair of horns either, but he’d not fought as long as he had to regain his kingdom to hand his heirs one more half-rate gift.

He’d given too many in the years when there was nothing else to give, but he wasn’t going to ask an elf for them either. Even one that was less repugnant than others.

“A fine kill.” Thorin nodded towards the bull again, and lacking anything better to say.

Dwalin had made a point and Thorin accepted it; he’d acknowledged some feelings of possession over the elf maiden. That was simply what it was, and now the onus was on _him_ to establish if he could tolerate this elf in particular. If not he’d have to go through the irritation of putting away the fact that he now thought of her as his own… whatever. He had no place to categorize an elf, even if it was _his_ elf in his life, nor did he particularly want one, so why was he bothering?

To annoy his enemy was a good and easily found answer, but if he was going to continue this it had best not be the charade it had been. Dís’ point was well-made despite his choice not to acknowledge it to his sister. Elf or dwarf maiden Thorin held his honor too dear to continue to play games with someone barely out of childhood for long. It was one thing to continue this with the girl aware its only purpose was to discomfit Thranduil, but it would be another if it began to harm someone as young as Kíli. It was necessary for them to come to some understanding before it continued.

“What?” Thorin demanded when his compliment earned him a glare.

“I had to shoot it twice.” The elf maiden responded, still looking cross and annoyingly young.

“You expected it to die with one arrow in it?” Thorin snorted, smirking in amusement and seeing Gloin doing the same. 

She _was_ young, a fact only reinforced when she held out the great bow in his direction as if in explanation; the gesture all but filled with the irritated huffiness of an adolescent. Amused, he took the bow, and found it lighter than he expected. Then he slid his fingers up the string – which was not made of gut or any other material he was familiar with the weapon’s smith noted in genuine interest – and made to draw it back. Thorin expected to find the length of the draw too great for the length of his arms but he did not expect to have to exert so much force to pull the string back at all; in fact it was greater than the draw-weight on Kíli’s short but heavy dwarven bow. 

The string released with the same musical tone it had when she’d fired it before, though, and Kíli limped over curiously. 

“May I?”

Isíl nodded and Thorin passed the bow to his nephew, who hummed appreciatively as he sighted awkwardly down the too-long bow’s center and pulled back the string. The note it struck lit the young dwarrow’s face up and he pulled the string back again, and released it more confidently, fingering the string afterwards. Thorin imagined that Kíli was as curious as he was about what it might be made out of.

“This isn’t a wood elf’s bow, where did you get it?” Kíli’s enthusiasm wrung a smile from Isíl, Thorin noted in annoyance, whereas he had not done so during this outing.

Which served to annoy Thorin further as he found no particular motivation within himself to make her smile, and yet couldn’t honestly say he wanted her smiling at anyone else. 

“It’s a bow of Loríen, from Lothloríen, where I lived with my mother’s mother before I came here.” The elf-maiden’s smile held a hint of smugness. “The bows of Lothloríen are superior to those of Mirkwood.”

Thorin tucked the comment away as ammunition against Thranduil for some other occasion as the two youngsters kept talking. Gimli, of course, was looking curiously at where his friend was speaking to the elf, but Gloín drug his son back to work on the fallen game by the ear before he could join the conversation. Thorin noted with amusement that Gloin doted as much as any father, but when there was work to be done that was that.

“I’ve heard strange stories told about that place.” Kíli replied, looking rather excited at the prospect of hearing some weird fireside tale.

“I heard the men from the new settlement in Dale talking about how they’ve never seen a female dwarf, so you must pop up out of the ground.” Isíl smiled sweetly at his nephew. 

“Ha! I’ll have to share that one with mother.” Kíli grinned. “I haven’t heard it before.”

“I have.” Thorin contributed dryly. “Though my favorite it the supposition that we hatch out of lava rocks.”

Above his head the elf maiden’s dark blue eyes turned to his and Isíl let out a brief laugh at the absurdity of humans that Kíli echoed and even Thorin had to chuckle at. Not that he’d laughed when that question was first asked of him. He’d been ready to start a fight, but Frerín had actually encouraged the madness. Then again his brother had also been quite happy to confuse the humans they saw in their wandering years at every opportunity, especially on those occasions when it encouraged them to buy the brothers drinks. Perhaps that was even where such things had started; some ancient dwarf with a sense of humor like Frerín’s taking advantage of the gullibility of Mankind.

“I once heard a Ranger telling a story about a human who supposed that elves were made of smoke and mist.” Isíl offered with a small smile. “How else could we leave no tracks?”

“I’ve actually wondered about that myself.” Gloín, who was leaning against a tree lighting his pipe, having left Gimli to grumble his way through the last of the dirty work with the carcasses, asked. “How do you do that?”

To Thorin’s amusement, the elf maiden opened her mouth to answer, then paused to give the question genuine thought before shrugging sheepishly.

“I don’t know how to explain it. The ground just – or the snow….” She offered, unstringing her bow with some difficulty and stowing it upon her back once more. “I think you’ll have to ask an older, wiser elf than I to get a good answer to that. I’ve never thought of the _how_ of it before.”

Gloín scoffed at that answer, but accepted it well enough, going back over to bark a few instructions at his son while Kíli asked if he could see one of her arrows. Thorin, lacking anything to say, leaned back against a tree and lit his own pipe. He was not thrilled with this outing. He was supposed to be determining if he could tolerate the elf maiden and now all he could think to do was look at her and be annoyed as the others actually made some kind of conversation with her. 

“Why do you do that?” Isíl’s question jogged him out of his irritated revere and he looked up at her from over the bowl of his pipe. 

“Do what?” 

“Breathe fumes.” The elf maiden asked, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Intentionally, I mean. Mithrandir does it, and Radagast, and so do some of the Men, but I’ve always wondered why.”

Thorin was more than a little amused at seeing an expression of focused befuddlement on the face of an elf, and because no-one who knew him had ever accused him of being particularly nice he offered her his pipe by way of explanation. Smirking at how she wrinkled her nose the same way he had at his nephews when they had when they were little dwarrows he waited for the inevitable response. Placing even a silent dare in front of one as young as this elf only ever produced one result, and two minutes later his pipe was back between his teeth and he got to see an elf having a coughing fit complete with watering eyes and an obviously burning nose.

“Well, that certainly explains a lot.” Isíl coughed as Thorin and the rest of his hunting party laughed at her reaction. “You’re all masochists!”

Thorin’s eyes locked with the annoyed blue gaze looking down at him as the female continued to choke and suddenly at the sight of her leaning against a tree, wiping her watering eyes with a handkerchief and with the fading light of an overcast afternoon turning her hair more white than gold, he felt his loins tighten and stir as they had first done in response to this elf maiden down by the forest river. 

“What’s a masochist?” Kíli asked, thoroughly killing Thorin’s interest before it could confuse him further. 

“Ask your mother.” Thorin grunted and was saved from future conversation by the appearance of those dwarves he’d designated to the handling and preserving of fresh game.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl had enjoyed the day. It had been so long since she’d gone hunting, and though there was an undercurrent of hostility against her race amongst the dwarves it didn’t touch her too much personally. Nor could she blame them for holding a grudge when it was amongst her own sins. She could still close her eyes and see the battlefield; littered with the dead of multiple races. She should have taken no joy in it, not when so many of their own kind had fallen, but seeing that field of orcs and wargs lying dead had gladdened her heart. There before her were thousands of those foul beasts that would nevermore deprive a child of any race of their parents. 

She wished that she’d been in the battle, for all that she’d never fought against anything greater than one of the giant spiders. Her father’s sword deserved to taste goblin blood again. Her arrows deserved to do more than adorn her wall from where her quiver hung in its usual, useless, place. For all that her father had never followed Fëanor’s sons nor been branded with their curse she had enough Ñoldoran blood in her that she wanted to see blood debts paid.

Isíl was glad that King Thorin had been called away on urgent business after they’d arrived back at the Lonely Mountain, however. Erebor was being rebuilt and it required all of his attention, and saved her from spending the rest of the day being glared at by the king of the dwarves. She still didn’t understand what had passed to mark that change in him. Perhaps it was just that without Thranduil to loathe she was the closest elf to hate? If that was the case why had he proven himself willing to laugh with her after the spiders and at other times? Dwarves might not be evil but they were certainly confusing creatures!

As it was Isíl had spent the rest of the day down in the village of Dale. She’d been curious as to the Mens’ preparation for winter and she was not expected back in the forest before nightfall. If the dwarves had no more use for her why not explore a bit?

She found the cluster of log huts less interesting when in the midst of them. They were as dwellings usually were; clean or messy depending upon their occupant and the quality of their construction ran along the same lines. Bard of Dale came out to greet her when she arrived and she added herself to his left of female elves he’d met in his lifetime. This, amusingly enough, made her number two. 

His winter preparations seemed on par with the dwarves, if not quite so well organized. The wealth he had earned in slaying the dragon would see him through the winter with his people fed and clothed, but she couldn’t help noting that for all he was obviously wise he did not have Thorin’s experience in maintaining control over a population in the midst of turmoil yet. He certainly didn’t have Thranduil’s easy experience with power and leadership, and say what you will of the king of Greenwood’s love of shiny things and his own dignity, Thranduil was a good king.

Isíl only found one truly fascinating thing amongst the Men, and that was their children. She was not quite the youngest elf in Greenwood, but she was only twenty years older than the elfling that held that title. She’d never held a baby, nor seen an infant in her life. Here amongst the village of men small children were _everywhere_ and Isíl found them delightful even when they were filthy. Feeling happier about herself she went and retrieved her horse from the small mountainside paddock she’d been instructed to leave Telia in and prepared to go back to her own bed at sunset, just as the wind finally arrived and the rain with it.

“Your majesty.” Isíl greeted Thorin politely when she heard his heavy tread, with its unusually long stride for a dwarf approach her from behind.

“Why have you waited until the storm arrived to go back to the forest?” The dwarf sounded particularly irritated and Isíl hoped that it was her and not some disaster inside the mountain that was the cause.

She wasn’t opposed to irritating someone as irritating as Thorin Oakenshield was being, but she didn’t particularly wish any other dwarf any kind of harm. Well, no, Gloín’s son had been rather rude; she wished him a severe but temporary itch or something of that nature, but nothing serious or lasting. 

“Because I didn’t particularly want to go back?” Isíl gave him an honest answer and a shrug in response, as honesty was proving to be a freeing, if very rude, thing in her personal opinion. “It is only rain; there won’t be any danger.”

“I can say from experience that night in Mirkwood has enough dangers of its own without adding a heavy rain to the mix.” The dwarf grunted at her, looking up at her and reaching out to take a grip on Telia’s reins below hers. 

Isíl frowned down at the grip he had on her reins but the dwarf king just stood there like his mountain; unimpressed, immobile, and rooted to the earth. 

“You’ll stay here tonight.” The small king of the large mountain informed her imperiously.

“Why?” Isíl asked, entirely fed up with Thorin, son of Thraín, son of Thror’s behavior over their last few meetings.

“What?” He glared back up at her.

“ _Why?_ ” Isíl repeated in what she told herself was a reasonable manner and not at all petulant.

“Because I said so.” Came the grumpy answer.

“That,” Isíl gave up all pretenses of elven calm and glared right back at the King Under the Mountain. “only works if you are someone’s parent or their king, and you are neither my lord nor my father.”

At that response the king’s short beard seemed to bristle in every direction like an angry cat and Isíl feels a rush of the satisfaction she didn’t get when confronting her own king. Perhaps Tari was right; her Ñoldor blood did make her crabby and confrontational. Oh, well, if it did she intended to enjoy it if possible.

“Why are you even doing this?” Isíl asked, returning to the question he had not answered before now that there was no more point in trying to be polite. There was no sense in drowning in shallow water, after all. “Beyond annoying Thranduil, why did you call me here _today_?”

“Why did you come?” Thorin countered and Isíl left him to hold the reins, throwing up her hands in annoyance as some thread inside her snapped under the weight of the dribs and drabs of honesty she’d been dealing out to herself and others since this mock-courtship had begun. Greater honesty in regards to her feelings than she’d shown in a very long time poured out directly after.

“Because I am _tired_!” Isíl shot back. “I am tired of being merry and bright. I am tired of my people hovering over me, trying to extract from me some nature I do not possess, and drag me over my protests into a happiness and a mindset I do not understand.”

“I am a _hundred years old_ ,” Isíl went on, her voice growing low and fierce, “barely past childhood by our race’s standards, but what is left for me? I feel like I have woken up in a book one page before the end and have forever left to read!”

“What do you mean?” The King Under the Mountain demanded.

“Doriath, Gondolin, Beleriand, Eregion.” Isíl shook her head, turning her face into the rain that was now falling lightly and staring up at the cloud-veiled moon. “All my people speak of, even those whose fathers never saw the land of the Valar, is the _past_ Your Majesty. How great were our kingdoms, how glad our cities, how wonderful our songs and our kings and fair our ladies, but _none_ speak of what great things we will accomplish now or in the future, and it is because they believe we have no great days left and no future to speak of.”

“It is not,” Isíl grasped at an explanation like she did at the raindrops, and both seemed to slide from her hands as she turned to look again at the huddled huts of Dale. “that I doubt the foresight of our forefathers, or the words of the Valar, or the greatness of Men. I don’t begrudge them their age, or ages hence, but why must _we_ simply _surrender_ to the failure of our race? How do we know that this is our fate and not something we’ve destined ourselves to by simply giving up? How can there be anything but defeat in one’s future if you don’t fight it?”

Isíl turned and looked down at the dwarven king, who stood in the rain, his black hair growing blacker in the rain and his dark eyes like chips of glittering obsidian in the night; reflecting back light oddly in the way that dwarven eyes always did. For the fathers of the dwarves had awoken in stone and darkness with no stars or moonlight to guide them even the eyes of elves could not equal the sight of dwarves when alone in the dark. 

“I do this because I do not know what else to do, and because at least your people are _trying_ , though I do not understand them.” Isíl finished, feeling the energy and warmth that had filled her in her outburst leaving her, and feeling he rain on her shoulders. “At least you tried and won and reclaimed something lost to you, rather than giving it up, and even if that means nothing to me or my people it means that at least one soul, somewhere, did _something_ and I am glad to have seen it.”


	5. Chapter 5

The rain had grown icy and Isíl tilted her face into it. The warmth and light of the Eldar were within her, though, so while she felt the cold all around her she did not feel it within herself. She simply felt drained by her outburst and the truth behind it. Perhaps all the whispers her elders didn’t want her to hear them speaking were right; perhaps there was something wrong with her. Maybe she’d been fading by inches for years and never seen it.

“No,” Thorin’s voice was quiet as he answered her, and it was as deep and dark and as strange to her as the stone beneath her feet. “we do not surrender. Aüle’s children were made to endure, and of all of them Durin’s line - _my line_ \- is the first and greatest. We did not surrender our home to the dragon forever, and we will not surrender our race to a quiet fate.”

“We have reclaimed Erebor, and though I shall never set foot near that dark place again, we shall call Khazad-dûm ours as well one day, and Gundabad as well.” Isíl shivered and turned to look at the sound of his voice and found her eyes caught and seized by his dark gaze. “And when the races of elves and men and dwarves and all other kinds have failed and the world is over we shall be called forth amongst our fathers from the halls of the dead and we shall rebuild it with our hands and our labors and it will start anew. Nothing ends, my Lady, and nothing fails, the only destiny promised to all of us is change, and of that you can be certain there is no end. If the elves can’t see that then I find the much vaunted _wisdom_ of your elders severely lacking.”

“Now,” Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain rumbled and tugged once on Telia’s reins. True to the horse’s nature the promise of a stable – even one inside a mountain- rather than a ride through the dark and the rain was more than enough to have the large dappled mare following the dwarf happily. “come inside. I’ll have a room prepared for you tonight and tomorrow we’ll speak again.”

Isíl inclined her head and followed him, noting again, with some amusement, that he still hadn’t answered her question.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin looked with no small amount of amusement at the glare his sister was directing up the few inches that separated their heights and held up both his hands, open palmed, in peace in Dís’ direction. 

“Peace, sister.” Thorin chuckled. “I didn’t do it.”

Even Dís’ ire was hard-pressed to survive that reminder of happier times. When they were children in the mountain; or rather, when Dís was a girl and Thorin a youth in Erebor it had been a frequent jest between them. Dís, angry because her beloved older brothers were both too busy with responsibilities to play with her, would angrily tax Thror with his culpability in keeping them away from her. Their grandfather, also King Under the Mountain, would always respond just as Thorin had and lay the blame on Thraín’s feet instead, and now Thorin was lighthearted enough to offer to share the memory with her again.

“Oh, so some other dwarf settled that tween of an elf maiden in the royal wing and ordered bedding brought up for her?” Dís’ large, beautifully muscled hands landed firmly on her generous hips and she glared at her brother all the more fiercely for the momentary weakness. “Thorin, I don’t know what you are up to, but I have to protest simply because of the girl’s age. Elf she may be but dwarves are better than-.”

“Than sending her through Mirkwood in the dark and the rain?” Thorin cut her off and snorted as he stepped farther into his own quarters and began to peel off his coat and the layers of clothing and armor beneath it. “What safer place would you have me put her?”

Dís’ motherly instincts turned that over and she finally huffed in halfhearted acknowledgement of his point as she moved forward to help him with his layers. Thanks to her deft hands he was spared the pain of bending and farther stretching his new scars. Annoyingly he was beginning to think that the healers who’d proclaimed his doom might be right about at least one thing; his shield arm was never going to bend backwards to its full extension again. 

“I’ll grant you that.” Dís finally sighed once Thorin had been stripped down to the thin cotton under-tunic and braies all dwarves wore against their skin, and handed him the heavy quilted dressing robe he’d had for years and she’d brought from the Blue Mountains with his other things. “Have you determined what you’re going to do about her, then?”

“Aye.” Thorin offered and accepted the robe gratefully before lowering himself into the heavily stuffed leather padding Dís had found somewhere and placed on one of the two stone seats that sat in front of the hearth. 

“Well?” Dís glared at him again and Thorin smirked at her, but didn’t answer her question.

Wise enough to know what he was about and that he wouldn’t speak if he didn’t want to Dís huffed once and then went and fetched a comb. As if he were one of her children she fussed at him for not keeping his hair properly braided and letting himself get rained upon. For his part Thorin just sat back and enjoyed the pleasure of having close family with him to attending to him so. Once Dís had combed out his own gray-threaded black mane he did the same for her, carefully stacking the gems and beads from her hair upon the table and then threading her longer hair into a single thick, loose braid for the night. 

“How are the boys?” He asked as he went about his task, his sister sitting on his knees as if she were still the girl Dwalin had carried away from dragon fire and Thorin had borne through the Withered Heath on his back.

“Did you know that Bifur is a widower?” Dís asked, amused. “And that he has a very comely young daughter just a year younger than Fíli?”

“I – no, I didn’t.” Thorin looked at her in surprise as his sister got off his lap and returned to the opposite chair. “Then again, there was some family trouble for him and the brothers, just after the dragon came, and they never offered much explanation.”

“Aye, well, apparently after his wife died he had to leave the girl with her relations in the Iron Hills.” Dís summarized. “She’s come back to her father’s house now, however, and I feel it is my duty to inform the king that his heir is smitten.”

“Huh.” Thorin mulled that over and found himself smiling. Not only would he be pleased to find his nephew happy, but a good dwarven marriage with heirs promised for the future would do much to increase the stability of Erebor. “I may end up related to the entire company yet.”

“If all goes well.” Dís allowed, smiling wickedly. “Poor Fíli is a bit overwhelmed, though, as he’s never had a father to educate him on the proper romance of dwarven courtship.”

“That is a shame.” Thorin sat back comfortably, refusing to be drawn by his sister’s antics, but more in a mood to be amused than he had been in a while. “We’ll have to work on that.”

“Don’t trouble yourself too much; I’ve already spoken to Balin about it.” Dís smirked at him and Thorin shot her a mild glare at the dig. 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl’s fear that she would be bent double in a short dwarven bed were unfounded. As with all of their architecture she found that their beds were oversized to their height. Not that she was complaining! 

Still, it was interesting to see the interior of these rooms where the Kings Under the Mountain and their kin and private guests stayed. This room was mostly bare, with only an unpadded stone chair and table as furniture, but it had been completely cleaned out of whatever dust and devastation the dragon and all those years abandoned must have brought into it. The stone carvings were interesting as well. In Thranduil’s palace they were also in a mountain, albeit a much smaller one, but the stone of the place wasn’t so central to what it _was_. There was just more woodwork, and more… Well, it was still an elven kingdom and looked like it. 

This place was the home of dwarves and everything from their runes to their hard-edged designs proclaimed that that was what it was. Isíl found herself standing in an under-shift she’d packed, running her fingers over the carvings she could reach, and inspecting the various nooks and crannies of the room. Then she got to the bath was suitably distracted from the differences in architecture and design by something more relevant to any elf’s interest.

Isíl had had a fine education and was thusly aware that dwarves had invented indoor plumbing. So it was hardly surprising to find a nice bathroom in the royal wing of Erebor. However elven baths were communal things, and were constructed differently besides. A large, heated communal pool was used for soaking by both sexes and the actual scrubbing was done in separate rooms. There was also very strict etiquette about how one behaved in the baths and where one looked and how far up the water had to go on your body, but all-in-all wasn’t such a different activity from swimming and there was little private about it.

The dwarves were known for their jealousy, though, and she supposed it made sense that no dwarven spouse would want the one they’d pledged their life to just on display whenever they bathed. Perhaps amongst those of the same sex it was alright, it would be alright on a journey, but at other times it would probably be frowned on, wouldn’t it? Given that thought and the fact that kings and lords of any race always had it better should she really have been surprised to find that the royal enclave in Erebor came with private baths such as this?

Yes, Isíl decided, yes she should. Because what she had taken to be the door to a closet opened to reveal a room quite as large as her quarters in Thranduil’s hall. Inside it featured a huge tub of red marble, smoothed and carved lovingly by dwarven hands. Two spouts with bronze handles issued very cold and very hot water when turned. Even the toilet was luxurious, sitting as it did in a tiny room off to the side with a marble bench stretched over running water to take the waste away. 

There were marks on the wall where a great mirror once stood as well, but that was no longer present and Isíl absentmindedly carded her hands through her loose hair as she thought of how she probably looked. There were elves in Mirkwood, she reflected, who would _faint_ at the picture she presented now. A barely clothed elf maiden standing in a barren stone room in a dwarf-lord’s kingdom, her hair unbound and her feet bare. It was like the start of some story that no-one had ever thought to tell their elflings to frighten them.

After soaking in a hot bath for a wretchedly decadent amount of time Isíl gave in, drained the tub, and went back to the main room. There she found things as she’d left them; her weapons spread over the table, neatly dried and polished, and her clothing drying over the arms of the chair as her gown lay airing over the back of the chair as it waited to be donned tomorrow. It wasn’t even vaguely threatening, despite the dim light from the odd dwarven lamps and their strange mix of glowing ground stone.

The bed was strange, though, Isíl noted as she climbed into it. Instead of making their beds on the square it seemed they made them on the round. For her bed was a circle set back into the stone with an arch opening into it and marks where curtains must have once hung so they could be drawn closed and shut even that entrance off. Inside the nest-like structure was a mattress stuffed with fresh straw and a long circular bolster that must be meant to keep the occupant of the bed from bumping their head against the stone should they roll about in the very oversized thing. Climbing inside Isíl pulled the thick blanket over herself and settled into the space, which was big enough for several elves, and wondered if she’d be coming back here and if Thraín’s son ever planned on answering her question.

SSSSSSSSSSS

Laying amidst the pillows and blankets and furs in his bed that night, Thorin indulged himself. Pushing his braies down to his knees and running his hands through the hair on his stomach and thighs Thorin closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around his member. It had been a long time since he’d been moved to do this. His passions had never been strongly of the body before and when he was so moved it was usually an easy need to fill. 

Dwarves were known for the skill of their hands and Thorin had never found his wanting augmentation beyond a scant handful of exchanges with an older dwarf woman when he’d barely been Kíli’s age. She’d had no love but her craft, but he had been young and after the heartbreak of Azanulbizar there had been comfort in sharing a bed and a body. They’d been happy to part ways after a few days of companionship, and he’d been satisfied with no company but his own since. Not that there was any shame in that; dwarves were not men to measure their worth by the length of their member or how many things they’d stuck it in between puberty and death.

He’d been angry at himself for wanting an elf, and angrier still for having laid claim on one accidentally. Now he was grimly amused. He had claimed to Thranduil that of all the things he wanted he only wanted a wife to complete his life. That the only weregild the elf could offer him was something the elf would fundamentally hate giving. 

He’d never been a very good liar, Thorin reflected, and it was just his luck that when he’d chosen to lie what he said had turned into the truth in the end. Letting out a deep satisfied breath as his loins stirred and he hardened underneath his fingers. Closing his eyes he ran the calloused pads of his fingers over the head of his penis and nudged back his foreskin. Grunting with pleasure he stroked himself further and gave in to the urge to rock his hips into the motion.

The beauty of elves was like the beauty of a blade or a sunset; foreign but as easily acknowledged as any beauty seen by dwarven eyes. There was no shame in calling another male dwarf handsome, if handsome they were, and admiring that, nor was their shame in finding beauty in Men or any other race. Just as there was no shame in finding the work of other hands beautiful; craftsmanship was craftsmanship and dwarves prized all beauty and all well made things. An elf maiden could certainly be beautiful it simply wasn’t expected to be the kind of beauty you wanted to take to bed any more than you’d want to bed statue or a fine blade.

At least that was how it was usually, Thorin reached down with his second hand to cup and rub his sac, closing his eyes at the sensation beginning to coil warm and urgent low in his belly. Thorin thought back to how Isíl had looked in the rain and grunted in added pleasure. 

Her hair had darkened to a truer gold as it plastered itself to her delicate skull and slender neck, and her skin had looked almost transparent in the dull light seeping through the clouds. Her eyes were his color, Thorin noted in possessive pleasure, exactly the color of the banner and arms his father had chosen for him at birth. If her face was too narrow for dwarven beauty Thorin liked the sharpness of her chin and cheekbones; like facets on a gem. Her lips were pleasing unto themselves; full and round and plush. If her breasts were small they were _his_ to appreciate despite that and her hips would be easy to grip. All that height would matter less when it was tucked beneath him in bed and those long legs were wrapped about his waist as well.

Gasping at the image Thorin spilled himself onto his belly and across his knuckles, shaking as he came and laying back to rest after the exertion. Pushing himself up onto his elbows and wiping his hands on the covers he pushed open his new bed curtains and squinted in the lamp light to stare at where he’d spilled on his belly. As he’d thought, even if his mind were still in denial his body was not because where his seed had been thin and nearly clear before it was now white where it soaked the hair on his stomach. His heart had decided what it wanted and his body had moved to claim it, and though he doubted it was possible for him to give her children, his body was preparing to do so anyway.

After getting up and cleaning up Thorin retreated back to his bed and gingerly laid down and pulled the blankets over him, still sensitive from his pleasure. He still did not know Isíl, but the elf maiden was no longer an annoying mystery or an addendum to his revenge. She had made an effort to be inoffensive since he had met her and possessed at least one characteristic he understood.

Despite all that the great of elven kind had tried, despite them claiming bonds of kinship and kingdom over her, Isíl was _lost_ and _homeless_ , and for the first time in a lifetime Thorin had one to offer someone. If in doing so he took her from her kin and make her _his_ all the better.

SSSSSSSSSS

Elves did not awake unsure of where they were and in an unfamiliar environment, because Elves only slept with their eyes closed when they were sure of their safety and surrounded by their kin. For elves had two kinds of sleep; true-sleep or soul-sleep came with closed eyes and the spirit resting as deeply as the body while what she supposed elves and men would think of as regular sleep – or perhaps the reverse – rested only the body and allowed the spirit to wander and watch for danger. Despite knowing she was safe in Thranduil’s palace Isíl seldom slept with her eyes closed. 

It was not a comment on anyone or anything; Isíl hadn’t regularly fallen into a deep true-sleep since she’d lived in the Havens with her parents. She got enough true-sleep, though, despite what some of the older, more gossipy elves whispered. Isíl just didn’t lay down every night with her eyes closed like some elves. As such, she woke aware of the time that had passed and where she was laying.

After making her bed she drew another bath and washed again, glad she’d packed her own soap. She washed her hair and shook the water out of it, and longingly admitted that dwarves had her own people beat, hands down, when it came to plumbing. Elves should be friendlier to dwarves just so that they could be persuaded to upgrade their baths as far as Isíl was concerned by the time she was out of bed, dressed, and combing her hair.

She heard the dwarven king’s footsteps before she heard the sharp rap of steel-hard knuckles on the rolling stone door to her quarters. 

“Come in, it’s open.” Isíl offered, standing politely at Thorin’s entrance as she finished pulling the comb through her hair.

“You didn’t feel the need to lock it, Lady Isíl?” The dwarf rumbled up at her and Isíl felt that at this point she had very little pride left to lose so she kept up the honesty she’d overindulged in so far.

“I couldn’t figure out how.” Isíl shrugged and was surprised when Thorin’s dark eyes flickered to the action of her comb going through her hair and a fine blush spread out over his cheeks beneath his dark beard. 

Clearing his throat Thraín’s son averted his eyes as though he’d been caught staring at her ears and focused his gaze resolutely at a random bit of carved stone on the walls.

“If you’re still dressing I can wait.”

“No,” Now Isíl was just confused; she was obviously fully dressed, “I’m fine, thank you.”

However things went back to normal easily enough when the plain pressed steel comb went back into the pocket of her inner-shift. Thorin’s eyes rose to meet hers and to her utter shock a small, genuine-seeming, smile touched his features. Then he turned from her to where her weapons were spread over the table and began to examine them with the same intensity he seemed to direct everything around him.

“You said your bow was from Lothloríen, but your sword is made in a different style.” Despite the close attention he was giving the blade his hand didn’t even hover over it in request to lift it. Remembering his nephew’s polite request to handle her bow she gestured her permission for him to do the same and watched as he skillfully lifted and then drew the blade from its scabbard.

“It was my father’s and it was forged in Gondolin.” Isíl confirmed, a smiling a little wryly as he raised his bushy black eyebrows and placed a hand on the hilt of his own sword. “Though it has nowhere near the august pedigree that Orcrist carries.”

“Indeed.” He nodded slowly, laying her father’s sword down on the table and drawing Orcist to lay beside it in comparison. 

She didn’t know what the eyes of a trained dwarven weapon’s smith of Durin’s own line saw in the differences in the blades, but what she saw were two swords of similar origins, but different qualities. Her father was but another warrior of Gondolin, and while his blade was fair with elven spells of protection written on the blade, it was still that of a guardian rather than a king. It was a hand-and-a-half sword, with a slender blade showing the progression of the elven smiths from the blades wielded and made in Gondolin toward the more slender, curving blades with longer hilts that were made in later years. Its hilt was carved from bone and bound in silver and steel. 

“Does it glow blue when orcs are near?” Thorin asked curiously and Isíl nodded.

“All the blades forged by the smiths of Gondolin did.” She allowed, and nodded towards his own blade. “Though I doubt it shines as brightly as yours. Do you know Orcrist’s history?”

“Lord Elrond said it was wielded by one of the great of your people, and that goblins fear it like men fear fire.” Thorin’s eyebrows came up again and he moved on to unsheathing her knife once she’d given her permission for his hovering hand to take up that as well. “This was made in Lothloríen along with the bow; possibly by the same hands.”

“Brothers, actually.” She allowed, noting that the elves in the Greenwood who spoke of the craftsmen in Erebor before the dragon came weren’t giving them full credit for their skills. “A bowyer and a smith; I received both as an eightieth birthday present. That’s all Elrond said about Orcrist?”

“Yes?” Now his gaze swiveled back from where he was sheathing the various weapons on the table. “I take it there is more to the story?”

“The blade you carry belonged to Ecthelion of the Fountain, who slew Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, during the fall of Gondolin.” Isíl told him. “Though he died in doing so. The ballad composed of their battle was one of my favorites as a child.”

It was gratifying too, to see the genuine awe in the dwarven king’s face as he regarded his blade with new respect before returning it to his scabbard. 

“No wonder Thranduil was so dissatisfied to see me carrying it.” The dwarf rumbled, and then his lip curled. “Not to mention his displeasure in returning it.”

“Exactly, he spent a great deal of time muttering to himself about Lord Elrond’s sense of humor being... distasteful after Mithrandir told him the full story of how you came to have it, and how obvious it was that Lord Elrond was happy for you to carry it.” Isíl grinned at the memory of Mithrandir sitting comfortably in the King’s great hall and very calmly relaying that, yes, Lord Elrond had found nothing wrong with a dwarf carrying such a sword. 

“To think, though, that a balrog met its death in battle with this blade…” Thorin shook his head once and more of the lore she’d been taught crashed down on Isíl’s head. 

Of course, Durin’s bane, and Thorin was the king of Durin’s line…

“Perhaps it was looking for you.” Isíl found herself suggesting, and was surprised when the smile she got from Thorin was neither wry, nor dark, nor anything but genuine. 

“Will you join me for breakfast, Lady Isíl?” The King Under the Mountain asked and Isíl laid her hand on the arm he offered to her and accepted.

What else could she do, and what in the world had put him in a good mood now? Were dwarves prone to mood swings and nobody told her?

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Kíli hobbled down the hallway as fast as his new foot would allow. It still chafed that he’d lost the speed that was such an advantage given his more wiry build didn’t have the strength of other dwarves, but he was happy not to have lost his life or any appendage dearer to him than a foot and a third of a leg. If anything it was a relief to know that of all his family he took the worst hurt. Between his destroyed foot and the axe that had ended up leaving a scar from one side of the bottom of his rib cage to the other he’d actually survived worse injuries than Thorin. The healers were still swearing there was magic involved in his and Thorin’s survival.

Between Bilbo’s magic ring and Gandalf and the Eagles and everything else Kíli wasn’t ruling the possibility out. 

“Hey, Fíli, pssst!” He hissed at his brother, pushing open the stone door to the small council room that Fíli was calling his office and had shoved a desk into the corner of before standing up straighter and returning to a normal speaking voice. “Oh, Balin, I’m sorry I didn’t see you.”

“Likely enough you are sorry you didn’t as I’ll have work for you later.” The elder dwarf observed, but smiled at the younger prince anyway and gestured for Fíli to leave the large pile of papers he was looking over with a slightly harried expression. “For now, though, do you have any news of our King’s state of mind, or exactly what went on with that elf maiden we had in residence last night?”

“Oh, nothing went on _with_ her.” Kíli gestured, standing rather than taking the seat the his brother tried to nudge him into. “She stayed in her guest quarters and Uncle stayed in his room politely enough. When I went in to speak with him this morning about his duties his bedclothes were fairly obviously soiled, though.”

Fíli wrinkled his nose at the information and Balin hummed, nodding once. 

“Thank you for the information, laddie, and stop pulling faces Fíli. It’s an important subject for your line, to entirely forget your King and uncle’s happiness.” The older dwarf sighed and took the chair Kíli had refused, nodding once. “Well, how did it look?”

“He’s thick.” Kíli used a term for a dwarf-in-love’s loins waking and producing fertile seed that would have earned him a sharp cuff to the back of the head if his mother heard him using that expression at all, let alone in relation to his uncle. 

“He’s your king and your Uncle, laddie, lease use a more polite term for it.” Balin just sighed and Kíli shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t _know_ the polite term for it.” Kíli complained and looked to his older brother, who just shrugged just as helplessly as Kíli had. 

“That’s what we get for letting my brother handle that talk. I told Thorin to do it himself.” Balin muttered.

“Uncle did give us The Talk, Balin.” Fíli’s lips twitched and Balin went on to mutter complaints about his brother corrupting the vocabulary and minds of two generations of royals, the later by proxy, before sighing, nodding and standing. 

“Well, there’s nothing to be done for it but speak to him before he breaks his own heart. Is he still antagonizing the lass? Dwalin said he spoke to him, but I couldn’t get any satisfying answers from my brother, as usual.”

“Try asking your new sister-in-law to talk to Dwalin.” Fíli suggested, grinning. “She’s a helpful little thing and she’s got him by the heart as well as the balls.”

“We’ll make a politician of you yet, Kíli.” Balin proudly informed the grinning blond dwarf and then clapped a hand over Kíli’s shoulder as well. “And a spy of you as well, it seems. Well, let’s go see what damage he’s done to himself this morning. God knows that if he actually wants the girl he’ll have to stop horrifying her at some point.”

“What if what he wants is a guaranteed lifetime of horrifying her?” Fíli asked cheekily.

Balin was still considering the very real likelihood that this was true as they walked towards the King’s quarters. 

SSSSSSSSSSSS

“Wait, _that’s_ what really happened?” Isíl was trying not to laugh and failing miserably. “How do – how does a troll sneak up on anything, let alone three trolls! Moreover, ponies – how does one just not notice trolls stealing entire ponies when your only job is to watch the ponies?”

“A question I have asked several times.” Thorin snorted, very satisfied with the amusement on _his_ elf maiden’s face. Isíl had been laughing since he’d decided to start the real story of the trolls, and he found it agreeable. “If they were my kin and brothers I would wonder what they were really doing to so lose track of their responsibilities together.”

One long, slender hand came up and covered her lips in shock, dark blue eyes widened and the strangled laugh she produced was _not_ graceful nor elven by his definition, but it was certainly full of amusement.

“So in the end your burglar saved you?” She asked and Thorin sipped his mead in amusement.

“No, our wizard saved us, our burglar had the brains to stall until the dawn.” Thorin finished. “By naming all of the various ways to cook dwarves, I might add.”

“Oh no!” And once more Isíl’s laughter broke loose. “I’m surprised you didn’t skin _him_ when all was said and done.”

“The thought occurred to me.” Thorin drawled and sat back. “What of you, my lady, no curious elven tales of foolish exploits on your journey from Lothloríen to Mirkwood?”

“When your guards have been alive for more than six-thousand years apiece they’ve generally seen enough battle to steer clear of danger when they want to.” The elf maiden shook her head as she nibbled in what the humans and elves considered a polite fashion at the bacon and toasted bread that had been sent up. “Your nephews are lucky to have each other to conspire with. Isn’t Dwalin near your own age as well?”

“Yes?” Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, felt the train of thought he’d been trying to build – and it was some combination of getting Isíl to laugh again and suppositions on how to separate her further from Thranduíl’s authority and any respect she might have for her king – derail. “What of it?”

“You must have gotten into trouble with him in your youth, like your nephews do?” The elf maiden offered, looking curious and merry. “I mean, all of your stories about Fíli and Kíli show that you didn’t mind their behavior, so I thought perhaps dwarves encouraged a certain… rambunctiousness in their children?”

“I wouldn’t say approved,” Thorin countered, quickly, before his nephews magically appeared and considered this approval of some new form of nonsense, new position, reclaimed kingdom, and dignity be damned. “but children will be children of any race I would imagine.”

“Well, I can’t say for certain, since I never had a near age-mate.” Isíl shook her head, white-blond hair sliding over her shoulders. “You’d never catch an elfling being encouraged to wrestle or fall about like that, though. Oh, and those camping trips and other things they went on by themselves when your nephews were older would _never_ be allowed. My people are protective of our children.”

“And mine are not?” Thorin’s good mood over a decision made began to shift towards offense.

“No,” Isíl paused and shook her head, her hands up and palms out in a gesture of apology. “I mean, I’m sure you are. It’s simply that elven children are, well, we are _always_ watched, and that things you gave your nephews freedom to enjoy wouldn’t have been allowed. Like – like the roughhousing! Battle training is one thing, but it begins at perhaps thirty-five us and we aren’t encouraged to carry things like toy weapons or use them often.”

Thorin tried to imagine a childhood without mock battles and scrambling about the floors twisting Dwalin’s ears and dragging Frerín across the great hall by the ankles while Thraín scolded his heirs and Thor’s hearty laugh carried down from the throne. 

“What in the name of fire and forge do you _do_ then?” 

“Childhood is when we begin to learn crafts, and study music and our history.” Isíl offered, sipping her mulled wine. “We usually begin to learn many crafts and leave those behind that do not interest us, and the same goes with music. Plus with your parents or some other adult about there are always other games to be played, and sports to indulge in that are not so dangerous.”

“We begin craftstudy and music early as well.” Thorin acknowledged, but sensed something more lurking beneath the surface of her voice. “What did you study, my lady?”

“My tutors gave up hope of my ever mastering a complex instrument so I play the Nõldoran flute like my father, and that was the end of my musical study. For which all and sundry were grateful.” Isíl wrinkled her nose. “You know of my craft, you’re wearing it, and history only changes with time.”

“You’re evading the spirit of the question, what games did you play?” Thorin snorted and leaned forward to refill his ale from the pitcher on the table. “What sports do elves have other than archery and competitive frock-wearing?”

“I’ve yet to hear of the sport of competitive frock-wearing your majesty,” The elf maiden’s voice was as dry as her reply was tart and Thorin heard the door open behind them simultaneously to the particular sound of Kíli knocking. “but I beg you not to suggest it lest _my_ king should decide to invent it immediately.”

Ale was far better drunk than inhaled, Thorin noted as he first choked on the large gulp he’d just taken and then loudly expelled it from his sinuses.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

“Can’t we just forget I ever said that?” Isíl asked, more than a little desperately as she fished her handkerchief out of her sleeve and handed it to the dwarven king. 

“Never.” Thorin croaked, still laughing, as he took the cloth and blotted at his beard and the front of his tunic. “Kíli, Fíli, _breathe_!”

“How?!” His older nephew was demanding as he leaned up against the wall, laughing so hard that he was forced to gasp for breath before and after speaking. 

“C-compet-titive _frock-wearing_!” Wheezed the younger nephew, who had lost his balance and was now being supported wholly by the arm his elder, but shorter, brother had wrapped around him underneath his ribs. “Oh Mahal, are points added or subtracted for the amount of lace worn!?”

“I imagine that would depend upon the style with which it was worn, and color coordination, laddie.” The white-beared dwarf named Balin smiled broadly and added with a malicious chuckle.

“Ho-w would you qualify accessories?” Kíli asked again, looking up and grinning with his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. 

It was an infectious expression and it dislodged a memory that Isíl had forgotten she’d had like falling rocks pulled more of their kind from a journey down the mountainside. She remembered so little of her time in Rivendell, between the death of her parents and arriving at Lothloríen. At that moment, though, she remembered Lord Elrond sitting by her bed as she lay there one night, unable to sleep. His twin sons had done something – she had not known what at the time and didn’t know now – and there they’d stood in the doorway; two young lords of elven kind as high and handsome and accomplished as any ever born. Yet on the faces of those two armor-clad warriors had been a look of such childish guilt as their father sat over her with one hand over his face… laughing helplessly at whatever it was they had done.

That was the look on Thorin’s face now as he sat back in his chair, his deep laugh less likes bells and more like fast water over rough rocks, wiping at his beard with her pocket cloth and beaming at his adult nephews falling about like tweens. For a single moment Isíl missed her own father’s warm laugh and the deeper roll of his ancient accent more than she’d allowed herself to in years.

“Since its competitive frock-wearing I imagine accessories would only be permitted in the advanced levels.” Isíl found herself adding, unwillingly drawn back into the heinous disrespect they were directing at her sovereign by the warmth in Thorin’s eyes and the fatherly relief etched into the lines of Balin’s broad shoulders. “Not to mention the possible disqualifications over footwear.”

Fíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thraín, son of Thror gave up his fight against gravity and promptly slid down the wall with his little brother still clenched tightly to his chest. There the Heirs Under the Mountain sat in a heap with the youngest on top and the eldest laying on the bottom, both chortling and snorting with laughter and occasionally poking the other for no apparent reason. The elder dwarf, in turn, began to laugh merrily as well, but he wasn’t more than a peripheral awareness. Instead Isíl found herself occupied with the fact that in the midst of his second bout of warm laughter Thorin had picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers.

Not only was this sudden intimacy absolutely nothing like what had passed between them before, but it was a violation of what little understanding she still felt she had about this mess. The press and scrape of his beard over her fingers was softer and plusher than she’d imagined anything as strange as facial hair would be, and his lips were dry and warm now that the ale had been blotted from them. Isíl was not one to share casual touches with the elves of the Greenwood. She had no family amongst them and she was not close to the other women of her kind there. Alone amongst them Legolas had often angled for an embrace or a held-hand and Isíl had always avoided that and the entanglements it promised if she could. 

She liked the feel of a warm, living hand touching hers and didn’t like how vulnerable it felt to enjoy it from a near-stranger who she was – probably – a pawn of and who had - probably had – no interest in her other than leverage against an enemy he couldn’t fight openly due to being bound by higher honors and duties.

“Ah, well, who are we to question the intricacies of elven culture.” The white-haired dwarf finally added with his sharp humor all the sharper for the gentility of his speech, and then he stepped carefully over the two princes laying across the doorway and walked over to his king with a short bow. “My King, the Princess Dís is speaking with Bofur and Bifur in the smaller council chamber. They believe that that passage we were hoping to open down in mine thirty-two west might be ready and wanted to discuss opening it.”

“Aye?” The change from dwarf to king was visible as he shook off his humor and stood, gesturing for Isíl herself to remain in her seat. “I’ll be there directly. Fíli, when you’ve composed yourself haul your brother up off the floor and take over my diplomatic duties for the day. Räg of the Gray Mountains is a thief at heart, so be polite to his emissary and then send him on his way with nothing but food for the journey home and the assurance that good, _honest_ trade awaits here when they are ready for it.”

“Shall I see if Dwalin can stand menacingly in the back of the meeting hall during the conversation?” Kíli asked his uncle from his place on the ground, now snickering weakly as he lay sprawled over his brother.

“Good lad.” Thorin offered, stepping over his nephews as though such antics were common, and turning back to face Isíl at the door. “As for Kahn, his halls are meager but they gave us food and help in the Withered Heath when no-one else offered it. See him in as good quarters as there are to spare and his party fed and tell him I shall speak to him personally as soon as my responsibilities allow.”

Isíl felt her own worried relaxing slightly as the king apparently forgot her presence. She’d slip away soon, and try to think of what to do. Now if only she felt any enthusiasm for going back into Thranduíls halls to endure the looks and gossip that followed her everywhere there now. Not to mention the fact that she’d just been horribly disrespectful to Thranduíl when he’d never truly wronged her. Or the fact that she still had no idea what the dwarf wanted or what she wanted.

“Please, my lady, finish your breakfast.” Isíl looked up from where her eyes had moved to study the inlay on the large stone table that was central to the King Under the Mountain’s private sitting room. “I shall send for you at first opportunity.”

“It might be best if I left directly, Your Majesty.” Isíl rallied and pointed out, despite the fact that it drew three more pairs of glittering dwarven eyes to where she sat with her hands folded politely in her lap. “I will have been missed by now and there is no sense in making someone come here looking for me.”

“We’ll speak of it soon.” The King Under the Mountain replied and held out her handkerchief in a silent offer.

“You may keep it.” Isíl replied, as was only proper since an elf did not _loan_ something as intimate as a handkerchief. 

“Thank you, my lady.” The silver-threaded head of blank hair nodded and Isíl found herself sitting at the table alone as Fíli returned to his feet and helped his brother up, the white-haired dwarf smiled kindly at her, and they all exited the room with Thorin’s last words echoing behind them. “Finish your breakfast at your leisure, please.”

Sitting back down to stare at her half-empty wine glass Isíl spared a moment to curse everything male that had titled itself “king” in the history of Middle Earth and their pride with them.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

“This is very good, thank you, Bofur.” Thorin looked down through the cleared opening at the spiraling shaft of the mine and the glitter of diamonds in the dark. “You as well Bifur.”

Both brothers beamed at their king, but left with a short bow and shared backslaps and little conversation. Even a dwarf as congenial as Bofur was hard to distract when his craft was calling him, and Thorin would have had it no other way. With this mine open and jewels to offer in trade Thorin had nothing but good news to offer the day, though. Treasure laid in horde was all well and good but no place survived on hoarded wealth alone; they needed their mines to open and produce once more and the faster the better. Dain Ironfoot was a good ally and a decent relation, but he was a king first and very aware of Thorin’s stouter claim on the bloodline and while he would contemplate no evil that didn’t mean his less scrupulous subjects or his mother’s relations might not. Erebor needed to regain its strength, and the Men would need all the help Thorin could offer to regain their and put the regions trade back in proper order. 

Resisting the urge to don harness and scramble down the mineshaft himself Thorin stood again and began the journey back through the tunnels to his next destination. His people knew him well, for he’d worked beside them and struggle with them since Smaug had come, but nearly half of the new arrivals were not their own people from the Blue Mountains. Instead they came from elsewhere and while Thorin wouldn’t begrudge them the fresh start he wanted them to know they had their King’s loyalty and that he would _demand_ theirs. He would need it all the more for taking an elven wife; especially if he planned to command their respect for her as well.

He would no more permit them to disrespect anything he called his own than he would permit them to disrespect himself, and she _would_ be his. Her laughter that morning and how easily she’d been drawn into mocking her own king just proved his suspicions were true. She’d felt alienated from her people since her parents death and felt it more strongly here than in Lothloríen when she’d lived there. 

He’d enjoyed the sound of her laughter, the light of her smile, and her company this morning. He’d enjoyed her _curiosity_ as well. His nephews had that light about them; that desire to see the world and the wonders of the Mountain they’d been forced to grow up distant from. They were young and life had much to offer them, and so was Isíl and Thorin liked that. He’d felt old for far longer than he’d been anything resembling it. 

“Balin,” Thorin nodded to his advisor and oldest friend and cleared his throat, “I have a personal matter to speak to you of and then we shall go meet with Kahn.”

“Finally ready to talk about the elf maiden, then?” Balin looked at him, amused. “You looked awfully cozy at breakfast.”

“It was a pleasant meal.” Thorin tried and failed to hold in a sharp half-smile at the memory of the conversation that had ended it.

“Competitive frock-wearing.” Balin hummed and Thorin broke down and chuckled, gesturing his friend into an empty chamber in the rough-hewn lower tunnels and taking up a seat on a comfortable shelf of rock. 

“Aye,” Thorin nodded, “I want to speak of her. What would the public feeling – beyond my kin and company – be if I took her for a wife?”

“Well now, _that_ would depend.” Balin settled in, stroking his beard. “Many would be satisfied that it was just as you said it was; weregild. They would, of course, treat her with less than queenly respect, as she would simply be payment for a wrong done. A few of our older, more conservative members newly from Dain’s kingdom would probably balk at it and might either leave or stir up trouble, but it wouldn’t likely be beyond what we could handle.”

“The mass of our people here are tired of strife and wouldn’t tolerate rabble rousing.” Thorin agreed. “Though Dain’s got relations who would no doubt buzz in his ears about it.”

“Don’t underestimate Dain Ironfoot just because you two will never be close friends.” Balin advised him. “Dain will control his people if some try and make trouble over it.”

“Good.” Thorin grunted, and then crossed his arms and looked directly into his father’s friend’s dark eyes. “What of you, old friend?”

“Well, my opinion _now_ , my king?” Balin asked. “Just for clarification this is an opinion you want separate from the several I’ve given you before?”

Thorin did his best to glare at Balin but was neither too surprised nor too put out when the elder dwarf’s response was to absorb the glare and nod in thought before responding without the humor.

“Well now, as I know for a fact that you desire her greatly and as a true wife.” Balin cleared his throat delicately. “By the way, you’d best choose a laundry maid with great discretion in the future, to be blunt Thorin. As I was saying, though, my king; we are blood and I have known you since your birth and known your father before that. As his advisor and now yours I give you the best advice I can; Thorin, my king and kin, be _happy_ if life allows it. If this elf-maiden offers you that I will be happy to call her my queen.”

Thorin felt his face coloring beneath his beard as he absorbed first the expected kindness of his advisor and then the unexpected but entirely realistic advice about where he now was in relation to this courtship. He hadn’t considered the obviousness of his feelings when seen through the eyes of someone who had access to something as simple as his _bedding_. That right there was far more embarrassing than being reminded that Balin had once given him rides upon his shoulder or broken up overly aggressive wrestling matches between his own younger brother and his prince.

All dwarves were raised knowing that they would find love once in their life, if at all. For dwarven women that meant that their children would be a product of such a love for no woman would conceive unless she not only in love by her husband, but satisfied as well. Just so for dwarven men, who matured at an expected rate, but who would father no children until they had found their love. That alone kept the population rates low quite apart from the limited number of dwarrow women.

This was also the reason that dynastic matches were not unheard of in dwarven culture, but were always planned and executed _early_. Just as Mnim had been sent to Thror’s halls when she was a lass and Thorin barely had chin whiskers such matches were made in the _hope_ that proximity and having high birth in common would produce a love-match; because unless such a match happened between the proposed spouses it would be a childless marriage and a useless dynastic proposition. So while Elves and Men probably had no idea that such matches fizzled more than half of the time and Thorin’s suggestion of forcing a match with an elf was as much jest as anything else, Thorin’s people would need only one chatty laundress to learn that his feelings for the elf-maiden were indeed deeper than expected.

“Dís is in charge of our household arrangements now. I’ll speak to her after Khan.” Thorin settled that detail and let out a long breath, getting control of his complexion again and shooting a quelling look at Balin’s merry expression. “So you don’t believe our people will be offended?”

“You’ve reclaimed our home and our pride, Thorin, our people will allow you almost anything.” Balin shook his head. “Besides, though it’s always been rare enough this _has_ happened before and I for one think it is just about time that the dwarf in question got more out of the situation than the general amusement of the elven population.”

Grunting his agreement and turning _that_ interesting new perspective on the situation over in his head Thorin nodded and turned the conversation back to politics. Yes, he could make this work, and dwarven pride would be the lever he moved public opinion on if he had to. As usual Balin knew exactly what he was talking about. 

With that sorted out in his mind he moved onto more pressing matters and Balin followed him into the chambers given to Lord Kahn.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl’s intention of leaving Erebor quickly was derailed when the Lady Dís approached her and asked if she would like to see the efforts the weavers’ guild was making to set up its looms in its old hall. She’d missed her looms the last two days, for all that she’d enjoyed the hunting and reluctantly enjoyed the company as well, and found that she couldn’t say no. If nothing else it was always good to learn new techniques!

What she found was both interesting and distressing. Amongst the dwarves only their women practiced weaving and even then it was a rare craft for them to take up. Usually cloth was purchased from Men, and then it was purchased as-is. Embroidery was commonly enough practiced and knitting was a well-known skill, but weaving itself was a small craft and had an accordingly small hall in a lesser part of the underground city.

“Do you only use standing looms?” Isíl asked, looking at the well-crafted by very simple looms being set up in the room. 

The room itself was in fairly good shape; it had been scrupulously cleaned, and if it lacked furniture outside of the carved stone shelves that lined the walls, the seven dwarven women who filled it were obviously working hard to put it in some kind of order. That said, of the seven women two were just half-grown girls and three were white-haired - and bearded, and that was still odd – dwarves who moved with strength and dignity, but little speed. The two dwarven women who remained were in their prime and obviously proud of their craft, but both looked exhausted and one was obviously pregnant.

“Aye, now we do.” One of the older women shot her a sharp look. “They’re easier to transport when broken down.”

Isíl felt a flash of embarrassment but cleared her throat. 

“Do you still have plans for your old floor looms?” Isíl offered. “If not I can sit down and draw some. I designed the looms I use.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Lady Isíl made the fabric you see me wearing now.” Lady Dís added simply enough, moving to stand beside the pregnant dwarf and speak to her in the low growling language of dwarves.

The eyes of all of the dwarven weavers turned to Lady Dís’ fine scarlet gown and the intricate pattern of poppy flowers that was woven into the woolen damask. Isíl spent a few seconds sure that she was about to have her craft critiqued unfairly; which would have rankled as she took justifiable pride in her skill. Instead she found the dwarven women nodding speculatively and was soon hailed with a barrage of questions about her techniques and dyes and everything else until she entirely lost track of the time and where she was in the pleasure of being surrounded by those as passionately dedicated to fibercraft as she was. By the time Gloín poked his fantastically bearded head into the room and began to combine fussing at the heavily pregnant dwarf woman – who it turned out was his wife and Gimli’s mother – with respectfully informing his princess that the midday meal was waiting on her.

“And, of course, yourself Lady Isíl.” The dwarven warrior added respectfully, his eyebrows climbing upwards at the sight of the ink sketch she had spread out on the floor and the intricate lines and measurements she’d just completed. “Sharing the secrets of elven weaving, my lady?”

“Elven looms aren’t any different than those you’d find in Gondor.” Isíl countered, because she had not been divulging craft secrets, thank you. “And thank you for the invitation, but I am late in leaving already-.”

“Good then, The King’s expecting you.” Gloín promptly tugged his wife out the door and Isíl was left with Dís putting a hand on her arm and smiling warmly at her.

“We’ve already held you this long, why leave on an empty stomach?”

Isíl found that she couldn’t argue with that logic either, and permitted herself to bed led down the streets and pathways and half of Erebor until she was in the Feasting Hall where a sea of stone tables only in a small part filled stood beneath a raised dais and a long stone table with a throne-like stone chair at its head. There the stone chair to the left of what had to be the King’s seat was removed, as was the short stone pith it stood on, and a more elf-sized wooden chair was brought out so that Isíl could sit comfortably at the table. Or, rather, she would sit comfortably once the King arrived and everyone in the hall took their seats.

The rest of Durin’s Line arrived earlier. Dís had disappeared through the doorway that led to the kitchens but her elder son had arrived shortly thereafter. The blond dwarf quickly picked up the conversation from this morning, much to Isíl’s embarrassment.

“So, on the topic of competitive frock-wearing-.” Fíli, son of Dís, grinned and Isíl straightened her shoulders and looked down the foot and more that separated their height until he held up his hands in surrender of the topic. If he snickered while he did it Isíl still considered it a victory.

“How often do your people eat like this?” Isíl gestured to the hall. “Altogether, I mean?”

“Twice every ten days at the midday meal.” Fíli answered promptly. “It was more often before we got the flues sorted out for the individual kitchens and for the bakers, but now that that’s been taken care of things are settling into a more normal routine. How often do elves eat together?”

“Altogether?” Isíl asked and thought over her answer when Fíli nodded to clarify his question. “In the greenwood elves feast more often than most other places I have been. King Thranduíl is known for enjoying his people’s company and having many at his table, but as for having everyone who is not otherwise busy in the hall I would say it happens maybe a third as often as you have it here? That doesn’t count merriment outside of the normal routine, though, where fewer than everyone is invited.”

“Makes sense.” Fíli reflected, stroking his beard. “What about in other elven kingdoms? You’ve lived in two others, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and stayed shortly in Rivendell, though you’ve been there as well.” Isíl agreed, relaxing at the innocent vein of the conversation. “In the Gray Havens Círdan only has two grand feasts a year and otherwise tends to take his meals in his workshop. He’s a very dignified elf, but he’s got little time or inclination for ceremony unless a situation absolutely requires it. My mother used to carry his meals to him sometimes, and once she left the basket I was sleeping in there accidentally and he didn’t even notice I was there for hours.” 

“Ha!” Fíli grinned broadly. “If my Uncle were half so unobservant in his forge I would… probably have caught on fire more often than I did.”

“Meaning you _did_ catch on fire at some time in your childhood?” Isíl gaped, torn between horror and laughter. “What in the world did you do?”

“What all dwarflings do at least once before their tweens; play with fire!” The large warrior called Dwalin snorted as a petite female dwarf with fiery hair and curled sideburns stretching down past her collarbone followed him up to the table. “Though you were worse than most about it, you rotten little badger. How many times was it again?”

“Only twice!” Fíli defended himself. “You make it sound as though I ran around with my tunic flaming once a month!”

“You practically did.” Dwalin grunted and crossed his arms, looking down the line of his black beard at his young kinsman. “Twice my arse. I distinctly recall at least four times.”

Isíl found herself hiding a smile behind her hand as the young prince grumbled good naturedly that Dwalin was exaggerating, that it was only twice, and that neither time resulted in more than a mild singeing. 

“At least I kept Kíli from doing it.” Fíli pointed out. “He never even got singed.”

“Aye, you’ve a point there.” Dwalin chuckled and raised an eye at Isíl. “What about you? What sort of mischief do young elflings get into?”

“I…” Isíl tried to recall causing trouble before her parents died, but couldn’t recall a time, other than the incident with being left in Círdan’s workshop, where she hadn’t been with one parent or the other. 

“I wasn’t a very adventurous child.” She finished lamely, and then, at the superior smirk that put on the dwarven faces, had to add something out of pride. “However Lord Elrond’s twin sons were famous for causing trouble, and him for encouraging it.”

“Really?” Fíli practically gaped at her. “Lord Elrond? As in tall and dark and very, very dignified, Lord of Rivendell, speaks and reads ancient dwarven languages better than _we_ do Lord Elrond?”

“Yes, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, herald of Gil-Galad, born in the First Age and all that portents.” Isíl felt herself smiling again at the memory of Lord Elrond sitting there with a hand over his face laughing at whatever it was his grown sons had done. “He’s one of the Peredhil.”

“Half-Elven.” She clarified when Dwalin, his wife, Fíli, and the newly returned Dís gave her odd looks. “His father was Eärendil the Mariner who slew Ancalagon the Black and is now a star of hope in the heavens.” 

The surprise on the dwarves faces showed that at least that was a piece of lore they shared, but she was still surprised.

“You didn’t know his heritage?” She asked, because there were some things that she assumed were universally known, but the conversation died as the King Under the Mountain entered his great dining hall and his people greeted him.

SSSSSSSSSSS

He’d been greeted with warm words and calls of loyalty in the Blue Mountains, of course, but it would never fail to move him to hear the echo of his people calling his name as he entered the Feasting Hall of Erebor. He remembered his grandfather carrying him into this hall and receiving the same greeting, and walking in at his father’s side to hear it when Thror was not there as well. Of all of the things that told him he had finally done what he was bound by honor and pride to do, of all the treasures reclaimed and all of the things he’d achieved nothing would ever hold the same satisfaction as seeing his people stand here in mass, safe and not wanting for the basic necessities of life. 

Holding up a hand and nodding for all to be seated – except for the high table, which would wait for him – he took his time in walking through the tables and greeting familiar faces. All of the companions from the journey to Erebor were welcome at his table, but most of the time they chose to sit with friends and family and those they worked with scattered throughout the hall. Bringing them back together in one place was more for those evenings when he desired their company in his chambers than for public occasions like these meals. Still, he clapped a hand on Bofur’s shoulder as he passed and traded a few words with the other miners about their progress as well. Then he stopped by where Oín sat with the healers and shared a few words with them. By the time he’d stopped off and spoken with a few other groups the food was being brought in.

Climbing the steps to the high dais Thorin stopped to nod to his sister and bow briefly to Isíl. He was making a statement in doing so, and could hear the slight susurration of dwarves murmuring over the gesture. He was satisfied when, in response to his gesture, Isíl curtsied deeply in return, the pith his chair was on and the one she no longer have equaling out their heights so that when she bowed it put her head below his own. Satisfied with the gesture, and probably surprised by anything resembling respect being offered by an elf, the dwarves of Erebor went back to the much more important business of eating and left royal-watching to their unwed daughters.

“My Lady, did you enjoy your time with the weaver’s guild?” He asked as he sat down and the rest of the table followed suit. 

Balin, Orí, and Kíli weren’t there yet, but Thorin was not surprised. Balin had been with Orí when he left him, drawing up the traditional contracts for Kahn to sign now that he had gone from an independent Lord beholden only in blood to Durin’s line to the head of a new clan in Erebor and a member of Thorin’s council. 

“Very much, your majesty.” Isíl offered in return, but was distracted as she looked down at the dwarven eating utensils, which included three small knives, two spoons, and a fork he imagined she found oddly shaped.

“How did speaking with Kahn go?” Fíli asked politely as they sat and the food was brought out and set upon the table. Dwarves, even royalty, weren’t so dependent as to make the servants pass the food so Thorin gave his nephew a significant look and waited for the roast to come to him. 

“Well, Kahn is as solid a dwarrow as any could wish, but his mines were never well placed and the iron has played out.” Thorin replied. “He and his people will be a valuable addition to our kingdom, and I am grateful to have him on my council.”

Thorin didn’t ask how Fíli’s less-salubrious meeting had gone. He could imagine that the emissaries from the old crook in question had left annoyed and without the coin they’d been sure they could get. Thorin would pick up that subject with both of his heirs later as well as Dwalin, Balin, and Nori. The latter being who he would entrust with following that group of dwarves off of his territory and listening in on whatever they might or might not plot.

“Glad to hear it, if he’s bringing Brell and Oslíl with him that’ll be all the better.” Dwalin named two very stout dwarven warriors from Kahn’s halls they both knew well from the battle of Azanulbizar. 

Thorin nodded his agreement and noted in relief that Balin and Orí were walking towards them. Kahn had eaten prior to the meal and was eager to make arrangements to return to his own depleted halls and gather his people, so he’d regretfully excused himself from the meal. That meant that Thorin would not be called upon to entertain his guest and friend and Balin could now carry the table’s conversation. Especially as Dís was now sitting on his right hand side and minding her eldest son. Her youngest could just be seen slipping into the hall and Thorin took a moment to catch Dís’ eyes and direct them to how heavily he was limping. If it were more serious than soreness and exhaustion he’d step in, but otherwise he was content to let his sister turn her own formidable attentions on his youngest heir.

When he turned back to Isíl he was amused to see that she had gotten a handle on dwarven eating utensils, even if she was eating with the usual staid elvish manners. Thorin had to hold himself back from laughing when one long-fingered elvish hand reached up and snagged a dinner roll just seconds before it impacted her head. Fíli, of course, didn’t look very realistically chagrined, though he did try.

“Thank you.” Isíl primly responded to Fíli’s look and took a dainty bite out of the roll before putting it on her plate.

“You’re welcome.” Fíli grinned back and Thorin shot him a sharp look.

Kili was just sitting down beside his brother and Dís and he did not want this to degenerate into a game of throwing food at the elf maiden. Especially not since he wanted to keep her. After he _had_ her the boys could be a bit freer with their antics. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed the conversation with our weavers.” Thorin went on. “After the meal I should have some time free and I wish you to come see the mines. They’re far more impressive now that they’re being worked again.”

“I’m honored, your majesty.” Isíl replied. “I’ve been here more than a day longer than I had planned, though, and there is bound to be some worry in the Greenwood over my absence. I really need to return.”

“If that is the only problem I shall send a messenger to convey my regards to your king and explain your absence.” Thorin smiled back, and countered her logic, having no intention of letting her back into Thranduíl’s hands so easily.

“I do not have appropriate clothing.” Isíl countered his assumption.

“I’m sure one of your fellow elf-maidens would pack some more for you and the messenger could return with them.” Thorin replied and unwillingly felt his eyes trace her body and what clothed it.

He’d never seen her ill-clothed, but that was just a sign of the skill of her craft; no weaver of skill would tolerate wearing some of things he’d been forced to in exile just as he’d never carried an inferior weapon, even at his lowest. Today, though, he found himself both admiring the quality of her garments and irked by elvish fashion. It obscured everything, save the length of the female form. The bell-shaped sleeves hid the shape of her arms, and the full skirts weren’t half so kind to his eyes as the form-fitting leather breeches she’d worn while hunting. He did approve of the wide round collar on the dress and the sweep of her collarbone underneath it, though he would have liked it better had it crept lower and given him a better suggestion of the gentle curves of breast it hid.

“You-you’re _what_?!” Dwalin’s voice, raised in a shout an octave upwards of where it usually was and the sight of Thorin’s old friend standing up from his seat, his eyes wide with shock, brought Thorin to his feet looking for a foe and derailing him from the focus of his conversation.

“I’m pregnant.” Dwalin’s little spark of a wife went on easily, sipping from her tankard of warm milk. 

Dwalin gaped at his wife of barely two months and Balin let out a sudden whoop and slammed one of his hands down on the table as Thorin felt his lips pull back in a wide grin as he held one closed-fist aloft in a call for silence with the hall. The call was soon answered and Thorin stepped up upon the seat of his chair for added height.

“My people, a toast in honor of Dwalin, son of Fundin, soon to be a father himself!” Thorin roared with his full voice and watched as Dwalin sat heavily in his chair, Balin pounding his brother on the back while Dwalin’s wife sipped smugly at her drink and the roar of forty-eight-hundred dwarven throats – and growing daily – took up the call to celebrate the continuance of Durin’s Race.

SSSSSSSSSSS

“You’re making a habit of this.” Isíl observed, her nerves just a bit frazzled, as she stepped into the small stable, just inside the mountain’s edge, that held many of the dwarves ponies and one lazy but well-loved elven horse. 

Telia was, true to her nature, laying rather than standing in her stall, and very contentedly munching on the slightly leathery apple that King Thorin II Oakenshield had just handed her. Isíl’s saddle and reins were also neatly out of reach behind the dwarven king’s broad shoulders. 

“If you stop trying to leave I shall stop having to halt the process.” Thorin rose and Isíl looked down at the dwarven king from where she stood, contrasting the black of his hair with the lighter wolf-fur covering the shoulders of his coat. 

“I have to leave in order to return _home_.” Isíl huffed. “Surely you don’t want an elf tripping around your kingdom for all eternity.”

“And if I did?”

Isíl had no idea how to respond to that other than to fix her eyes on some of the stone carvings on the walls, count to ten, and remind herself that dwarves were apparently in possession of odd hormonal balances. That was the only possible explanation for going from grumpy, to amused, to barely tolerating her, to downright growly, and back to amused, and now…. Whatever this thing was that had his dark eyes following her so intensely. 

“You don’t.” Isíl replied, and cocked her head to the side. “Not that I know what you want, because you’ve done an excellent job of diverting all my attempts to find out over the last few meetings we’ve had. Can I ask whatever inclined you towards this reversal of the usual order of things where an elf has been rendered blunt and a _dwarf_ wants to play word games with his true intentions?”

Isíl felt oddly triumphant as Thorin’s chin tilted farther up and he centered a glare at her in response to what she said. For all of five seconds, she felt so, and then his lips began to twitch and his shoulders shake, and she found herself treated to the sight of him throwing back his head in laughter for the second time in one day. His amusement was still the same; deep and dark as the lake he’d fed her that disgusting mash of stuffed innards by, and as warm as a summer day by the sea, and suddenly she’d found a better simile for it.

Because in that instant that’s where his laughter took her mind; back to the sea. She was in the Gray Havens, with her father laughing and chasing after her and her mother’s voice calling them from farther ashore as she ran barefoot through the sand with the waves dragging at her frock and hair. The air was clear and hot and golden with summer’s light and her father’s hair was so very dark in contrast to everything around them, from the pale gold of the sand to the nearly white blond of her hair to the transparency of his soaked white tunic, and all around them the waves rolling and rumbling in with the same musical vibration as Thorin Oakenshield’s laugh.

Isíl jerked at the feeling of something brushing her face and blinked in surprise to find herself seated on the same bale of hay the dwarven king had been on when she arrived, with Thorin standing over her, his face clouded and dark and one hand brushing carefully over the curve of her jaw and cheek. 

“Wherever you were, Isíl, you were not here.” The dwarf rumbled in that low voice of his, the question implicit even though what he’d said was a statement of fact.

“The sea.” She answered, shrugging and choosing not her rise, her knees feeling as weak as her voice sounded. “I was born there and my mind has been on my parents often lately.”

The intense gaze flickered towards the interior of the mountain briefly and the dwarf nodded, his hair and beard a shadow in the dimly lit interior of the stable.

“That is a sin I understand, but are they all that you think of when you think of the sea?” 

Isíl had never known anyone, from Thranduíl to Mithrandír to Círdan who asked questions with the intensity of this dwarf save perhaps Lady Galadríel, and for all of the Lady of Loríen’s intensity she had seldom directed it at Isíl. So Isíl shrugs weakly and feels compelled to answer another of Thorin’s questions, as she’s answered them all.

“I’m tired, and you still haven’t told me what you want of me.” She pointed out.

“I can’t want you?” Thorin rumbled at her and Isíl glared at him for it.

“I have officially learned that it is very annoying to have all of your questions answered with more questions, can we be serious now?” Isíl demanded and the King Under the Mountain broke out into laughter again.

Irritated and unable to stand with him looming over her she planted both of her hands on his shoulders and shoved only to find that dwarves are as deeply rooted to the stone Aulë laid them in as legend says. She might as well have shoved the Lonely Mountain itself for all that he budged. Briefly she hoped that he’d take offense and step away, but what happened next wasn’t the offended roar she was expecting.

Strong, broad, short-fingered hands, calloused and hard as the iron they worked settled on her waist and drug her to the edge of the hay bale she was perched upon and a moment later the same dry lips that had brushed across her knuckles earlier in the day were settling over her own and that same softer-than-expected brush of beard was scraping over the edges of her cheeks and chin. Later she would deny that she kissed him back, but she would admit to slapping him afterwards. 

SSSSSSSSS

The full lips beneath his own were as soft as he’d dreamed them to be, but immeasurably sweeter. He’d expected her to taste like the dwarf-woman who’d so happily freed him of his virginity and some measure of his grief after Azanulbizar, or perhaps the widowed woman he’d freed of the Man who beat her in Dunland. The first had tasted of home and possessed the warmth of the forge and the coolness of marble; he’d tasted some measure of the home he’d lost in the soot clinging to her skin even after a bath. The woman had tasted of warm ale and her skin smelled and carried a hint of fresh baked bread and old bruises and new hope. 

Isíl tasted like _spring_. There was nothing of Erebor in her, but she tasted like that first day on the road after a long, hungry winter when the nights weren’t bitter and the days were warm and the hunt and forage good for an injured people. There was salt in her kiss and her skin was warm like the beach sand he’d walked on but once in his life. If there was metal in her it was gold; lustrous but warm and softer than the steel that still called to his hands to be shaped now that he no longer needed to abase himself in the villages of men to feed his kin. 

Moreover, though, she returned the kiss. Tentatively, yes, and very started, but her lips moved softly underneath his and she tilted her head to give him better access when he sucked her lower lip into his teeth to gently nibble at it. He didn’t try to plunder her mouth of draw her body any closer to his than the handbreadth that separated it, though. Thorin, son of Thraín, son of Thror, was no-one’s thief.

If anything the sharp – and that would definitely bruise well – slap of her palm meeting the side of his face after he’d pulled back and seen the wide-eyed shock on her face was the perfect ending to such a first kiss. As the old dwarven proverb said, _”If she doesn’t care enough to slap you she certainly doesn’t care enough to wed you!”_. Grinning at the blow he bracketed her shoulders with his hands so that she couldn’t take that elven agility she’d used to scamper through the trees slaying spiders and flee from him, and her eyes blazed up at his angrily from where she sat.

“I do not appreciate being trifled with, King.” Her chest heaved prettily as she glared at him, one hand on the hilt of her sword.

She had a nice grip on the weapon too, he noted, and promised himself that he would evaluate her training with that as well. All of Durin’s folk learned to wield weapons and if she was as out of practice with the sword as she claimed to have been with the bow it would need to be remedied. 

“I am not trifling with you.” Thorin growled back, enjoying himself with this courtship as he’d never enjoyed being followed about by Mnim in his youth. “I want you as my wife.”

Now he was being gaped at again, before he watched those blue eyes - _his color_ \- narrowing at him and was forced to either step back – which he did – or stand where he was and end up with his face buried in her chest. The later would not have been unpleasant, but it would have probably gotten him slapped again, and there was such a thing as too much of a good thing. Especially considering that her hand hadn’t left her sword hilt yet. 

“If you are not trifling at me, tell me one reason I should believe this is true?” Isíl demanded, her hair a white-gold curtain in the light of the lanterns and her skin moonstone in the shadows. “From the moment this began it was obviously a ploy to humiliate and annoy King Thranduíl. I understood this and was not opposed to helping you because you were wronged. Why should I believe anything has changed and this is not just another game? Your hatred of elves is well-known.”

“Aye,” Thorin wasn’t about to deny that. “my hatred of Thranduíl’s people is what it is, and it is _deserved_ , but you are not one of his people and I am willing to admit to the possibility that there are others of your kind, like you, who are better company.”

“You don’t marry good company!” The elf-maiden glared down at him, her hands open at her sides and pointed towards the heavens as though she were going to beseech the very Valar to restore Thorin’s sanity. “You marry someone because you love them!”

It was a pretty picture; he liked her ireful look.

“You’re saying you believe it impossible for me to love you?” Thorin countered, unhappy with the question, and unhappier still to have to purposefully utilize elven tactics of redirection. 

Before when he’d done it he’d been stalling for time as any king would with tactics he’d seen his grandfather use in council. This felt too much like elven tricks, but he would not be maneuvered into either lying –for he would not say he loved her yet, though he wanted her badly, and had liked her company a great deal that day and the day before – or giving her room to flee from him entirely.

“No, I am saying that we don’t know anything about each other!” Isíl countered right back and Thorin thanked Mahal for the girl’s youth as he snapped his verbal trap shut around her.

“That is what time and courtship are for, isn’t it, Lady Isíl?” Thorin lowered his voice until it was a bass rumble; something he’d known to effect other women of at least two species, and waited with his nerves taut for a response.

This time _he_ was rendered uncomfortable by the force of her gaze, for the dark blue eyes he’d been admiring earlier finally fixed on his own with all of the force her race commanded and yet he’d seldom seen touch her eyes before. Thorin held his ground though and did not blink as she seemed to look through him for something written on the other side. Finally she visibly let out a breath and sucked her lower lip – still swollen from his kiss – into her teeth to worry it as he eyes flickered away and then back. When they rested on his own gaze again, she finally spoke.

“I am young and do not know what I want.” The elf maiden offered, her hair lit from behind as she stood over him, her height still a bit annoying but not so much as before. “I do not know how this will end.”

“I thought we’d already established, my lady, that nothing ever ends.” Thorin rumbled and was pleased to see the ghost of a smile touch her lips.

“I still need to go back to the forest.” She maintained and he captured one of her hands in both of his.

“But you will be back.” 

“I will, but not tomorrow.” and there was a hint of challenge in those dark blue eyes, “After all, if this is an honest courtship I shall need a few things.”

“Aye, and myself as well.” Thorin nodded and stepped back, freeing her hand and allowing her to access the tack behind him. “You’ll return two days from now?”

“Three.” She decided after a moment’s thought, and when Thorin reached for her hand she gave it to him and did not pull away as he pressed a kiss to her fingers or led her horse out himself.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

 

_…A star was bound upon her brows,  
A light was on her hair  
As sun upon the golden boughs  
In Lórien the fair._

_Her hair was long, her limbs were white,  
And fair she was and free;  
And in the wind she went as light  
As leaf of linden-tree…_

It wasn’t until she’d stopped singing that Isíl realized she had been and the song of Nimrodel died on her lips. 

“For a tune that is anything but merry you sing it very sweetly.” Legolas Greenleaf offered kindly from where he stood in the door to her work room his eyes lingering on where she sat at her largest loom. 

“Thank you.” Isíl replied, unsure of what to say.

The other elf-maidens had utterly deserted her after first falling upon her en masse when she returned. Though Thranduíl had refused to get involved – wisely, in her opinion – there had been no few elves who had thought she was enduring all manner of ill treatement when she did not return at the expected time. She’d put that stoutly to rest and left everyone very happy to avoid her after doing so; most of them muttering darkly about how her Nõldoran blood had made her unsettled mentally. 

Of all of the people she’d expected to come visit Legolas was certainly the last. They’d never been close, though perhaps he fancied they were, she now thought. Or maybe, as Legolas was far from a fool, he’d fancied that he was simply closer to being allowed to know her. Either way Isíl knew that she should have said something to him long ago and not let him get so involved; he was as kind and good an elf as any maiden should want.

“I’m happy.” Isíl offered, shrugging. “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m happy.” 

“I’m glad.” The Prince of the Greenwood replied, his honesty apparent in his voice and eyes as he bowed to her once, smiled, and retreated; apparently satisfied with the answer she had given. 

Tugging twice at her shuttle to set it taut again, Isíl took a deep breath and looked at the pattern of the cloth she’d started once more. Tracing her fingers over the pale golden-white cloth, spun from the weight, flow, and color of rising cream and patterned through with mottled golden leaves of light on a mallorn tree she felt herself smile. Going back to her work and her craft Isíl picked up another song.

_The leaves were long,  
the grass was green,   
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,   
And in the glade a light was seen   
Of stars in shadow shimmering._

If other elves, passing by the room, were surprised to hear Isíl’s gentle, high voice carried in happy melody with no prodding, they did not comment on it. If they were worried to hear her sing of Luthíen’s choice given her suitor? Well, of that they did speak, but only where they were sure she would not hear them. 

Either way it was of little concern to Isíl, who was confused, but neither bored nor tired as she turned over the strange feel of a soft beard scraping across her cheek and the equally strange feeling of someone else’s teeth gently nibbling on her bottom lip. 

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin sat by his nephew’s bedside, one hand carding idly through Kíli’s hair as the other wound itself through Fíli’s. 

After much prodding from Dís Kíli had admitted to suffering from a new complaint. Earlier that morning when he’d taken a fall that should have only jarred painfully and then faded to nothing his stomach had begun to hurt. Not the ache of having eaten something disagreeable, but with the pain of a war wound. He’d gone on and done what any dwarf would do, and ignored it in the hopes that it would go away as many of his aches and pains leftover from the battle did with some time, but it had not.

Thank Mahal for Dís’ stubbornness and Thorin’s authority as their king as well as their uncle. While Oín was palpating Kíli’s stomach, anticipating some minor complication Kíli had suddenly screamed in pain and seized his brother’s hands, leaving Fíli to hold him in place as he thrashed in response to the pressure on his abdomen. Thorin had heard his nephew’s voice from the council chamber and sprinted down to find Dís’ face drained of color and Fíli stroking his younger brother’s hair and trying to calm him.

There had been a piece of blade, struck from the ax that had slashed Kíli across the stomach, just below the ribs, lodged within his body. The fall earlier had dislodged it and only his dwarven hardiness had prevented infection from setting in given its putrid, orcish origin. So for the second time in a year Kíli had had to endure his body being cut open and sewn shut again as the healers retrieved the piece, checked for the infection that was thankfully absent, sewed him up again, and ordered him on bed rest. 

Seeing the prosthetic foot Thorin had crafted so carefully leaning forlornly in the corner by the great royal bed that had once been Frerín’s hurt worse than seeing it strapped to his nephew’s leg. Leaning back in his chair and having finally convinced Dís to have a care for the old injury to her back and find her own bed, Thorin yawned and looked down at the golden head of hair resting on his knee. 

He should get up and tuck Fíli in beside Kíli; even in his sleep his elder nephew would have a care for his little brother and there was plenty of room in the bed. That said Thorin was in no hurry to remove himself from the comfort of their presence. Kíli was once more injured and bedridden, but the incision had been small and the wound not infected. He’d probably be up and around in a few days, once the wound had sealed better around its stitches, and causing trouble and being a help in equal measure only hours after that. 

None of that helped Thorin’s fear of losing either of his heirs. He’d taught them to fight and to forge, he’d held his hands open to receive Kíli’s first steps. When Fíli was born he’d held him before his father even and called him the future King Under the Mountain, promising to deliver him to a rightful home he’d never seen. 

That at least he’d done, Thorin sighed and unwound his hand from Kíli’s hair to rub a hand over his eyes. They were home and safe within miles of stone. He wouldn’t have to wonder again if he could beg a human healer to see them when they were with fever, or if they would have enough to eat to grow strong. Now when injured he could ask Oín, who was no longer wandering, or command any other healer to see to his heirs and they would be appropriately honored to do so.

“So,” Kíli’s sleepily slurred mumble jerked Thorin’s attention back to the bed and the dark eyes that were barely slitted open in the dim light of the single lantern he’d left uncovered in the room when he’d finally convinced Dís to sleep. “I’m going to have an elf for an aunt.”

“You liked her well enough when you were discussing the finer points of archery with her.” Thorin snorted, amused and wondering how strong the herbal tea Oín had given him had to be to get him to ask that so directly. 

“I like to shoot things.” Kíli agreed amiably. “What do you think you’ll say now, instead of ‘go fuck an elf’, since, you know…”

Thorin glared down at Kíli but tried not to laugh as he did it. Definitely very strong herbs in that tea; pity it was no longer keeping Kíli asleep and quiet. He needed his rest and Mahal alone knew where this conversation would go.

“Watch your language; a prince should have a vocabulary big enough that he does not have to resort to profanity in casual conversation.” Thorin dutifully repeated Dís’ ages old motherly admonition and reached down to comb his fingers gently through his nephew’s hair again. “You need to rest, Kíli, go back to sleep.”

“No,” Kíli whined, as he hadn’t in years, and glared petulantly at the space over Thorin’s left shoulder. “I’m not gonna.”

“Ah,” Thorin held in a chuckle and began to scrape his nails gently along Kíli’s scalp and watch his eyelids droop in response. “then what do you want to talk about?”

“How d’you know, Uncle?” Kíli fought his eyes open again and looked up at Thorin with a surprisingly focused and oddly longing expression.

“Know what, Kíli?”

“That you’ve found the one?” Kíli asked easily, and sighed deeply, his eyes closing. “I mean, other’n getting thick.”

“ _Language_ , Kíli.” Thorin rumbled more sharply, feeling his own face heat even as he was suddenly forced to reevaluate taking the blunt approach to giving the boys The Talk all those years ago in the Blue Mountains. “That’s no way to talk about Finding Your Match.”

“How do you know you’ve found one, though?” Kíli was doggedly determined as only the naturally stubborn can be when drugged. “I mean, what if you never do?”

“There is no shame in that.” Thorin replied, recalling his own contented solitary life from before. “You’ve got your craft and your blood and your kin, Kíli, and if you never find a Match and your loins never move to continue your line there is nothing wrong with it. Your brother’s already found someone and Durin’s Line will continue.”

“What if I want to find someone too?” Kíli asked and Thorin, once again, reminded himself that Kíli was much like the brother Thorin had lost and his youngest nephew so resembled, and never liked to see Fíli go or do anything that he could not himself do just as happily.

“Stop shaving and you’ll find someone easily.” Thorin couldn’t resist adding while Kíli remained sleepy and suggestible, and, just for good measure, he repeated it a few more times as Kíli mumbled his way back to sleep. 

Thorin didn’t debate the bow’s usefulness as a weapon, of course, but it was a bloody embarrassment to have one of his heirs shaving for it. Thorin himself kept his beard trimmed in mourning for all that they had lost, and even now he was considering – perhaps – letting it grow longer. It required though, and looking down at Kíli, his face only a bit darker than the sheets, but at least no fever to be felt on his skin, and Frerín’s death lingered too close in mind to consider it yet. He’d regained their home and their gold, but they’d still lost so much…

“And you,” Thorin sighed and tapped Fíli once on the head, knowing all too well that he’d never have slept through his brother waking. “repeat any of that to your mother, Balin, or anyone else, and I’ll shave you myself.”

“Yes, Uncle.” His heir mumbled, chuckling, against his knee and Thorin snorted once before leaning back in the heavily padded armchair and letting himself begin to drift off. 

The next day his responsibilities would be greater for Kíli’s enforced rest. Fíli would want to – and should be allowed to – spend a great deal of time with his brother, and Dís would want to hover over both sons. This meant he’d have less time for tasks outside his responsibilities; like crafting a sincere courting gift for someone who wasn’t even a dwarf. What did one make an elf-maiden anyway to woo her?

Looking down at where Kíli was sleeping peacefully he decided to get a hold of some dry fruit as well, just in case.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More courtship shenanigans, next up, gifts are actually given and the cultural significance of badger painting is discussed. 
> 
> (Also, I'm surprised nobody's commented on the chapter where Bombur invents haggis.)

Isíl fretted almost equally over both her decision on what to give as the first sincere courtship gift she between herself and the King Under the Mountain and the decision to actually engage in said courtship itself. The day afterwards she’d been, well, mostly the elf maiden had been curious. This was an utterly new experience for her, after all. 

The kiss had been very interesting. Physically the sensation of another being’s lips pressing against hers, the brush of his beard on her face, and the press of his spirit against hers had been very intense. She’d never experienced anything quite like it, and from what she could discern it had been _sincere_. That only concerned what she had been able to discern, though, and Isíl was becoming more aware of the fact that these were very much uncharted waters where she was concerned, and she could always be wrong.

What if the sincerity hadn’t been in his desire for her as a partner in life, but a sincere desire to use her to further humiliate Thranduíl and her race? Or perhaps he did want her as herself, but planned to somehow remake her? Isíl found such duplicitousness out of such a straightforward, _stubborn_ soul impossible to imagine in so many ways, but she had to admit it was a possibility. She listed it as so unlikely, however, that it wasn’t worth much concern. Thorin Oakenshield didn’t seem like the kind who would pretend to feel any way other than that which he felt. He might be exactly as polite as any situation required, but dissembling seemed contrary to his nature; like water running uphill.

The other concern was more daunting. Isíl had consented to engage in a courtship with a moral, and though Luthien’s choice and the choice of the Half-Elven that had come after it had all come from dealing with Men there was no denying that Dwarves were not amongst the First Born. The Second Children, and all of Ilúvator’s children thereafter, must die at some point and were not reborn in Valar. If this courtship carried itself to a binding conclusion would she too have to make such a choice? Could she do so if it meant she would not see her parents again until the unmaking of the world and the End of All Things?

They were deep thoughts and tender worries for one so young, and like many so young were inclined to do she put them off until later and chose to focus on the pleasures of the moment. She was curious about Thorin, curious about the jewel tones of his spirit, and happy to be wanted for herself. No-one who was afraid of swallowing sea water would ever learn to swim, and the quickest way to fall out of a tree was to worry more about the ground than where your hands and feet were going.

This still left her with the problem of coming up with a courtship gift in three measly days. She didn’t want to give him more fabric. Not only would that just be more of the same, but one didn’t showcase one’s craft until later on in the courtship. If anything she’d given the dwarven king fabric first because she’d thought it to be a throne gift, and then because she had little else of princely quality give Dís. Moreover, what few other things she had of such quality were things inherited from her parents and she wasn’t about to part with such things in either pique at Thranduíl or in regards to a situation she was still unsure of. 

Poetry was a traditional first gift amongst the Nõldor, or a hunting knife. She wasn’t a smith and she doubted that one of the Durin’s line would be satisfied with the average elven craftsmanship when it came to metal that was all Isíl could afford to acquire on short notice. That left her with Sindarin and Silvan traditions, which were even less appropriate. Thorin Oakenshield would definitely not have a use for one of the Greenwood’s bows, and would probably be insulted by receiving it. As for the flowers and such, well, the other elf maidens had sent him similar things in hopes of being refused so she wasn’t going to retread tired paths.

Going around in circles – she had no idea if he played a musical instrument, and that was a more intimate gift anyway – led her back to poetry. He didn’t speak Sindarin for all that he recognized it, so going to the scribes in search of a book for sale or trade hadn’t done her any good. She’d been hoping to find something written in Westron and perhaps dealing with all of the races of Middle Earth, but she’d had no such luck. Instead she was left digging around her room looking for forgotten possessions in the hopes of finding some kind of inspiration.

In one of the shallow trunks underneath her bed she found a collection of things from her lessons as a child. One of them, she was delighted to discover, was a book of Nõldoran Poetry she’d translated to Sindarin and then into Westron in Lothloríen as a school girl exercise in languages and writing. It was bound in simple dark green leather and the cover was embossed with an image of climbing ivy, but the inside showed two-hundred intricately decorated pages of carefully drawn and written illumination. A third of the pages are taken up with works written in Quenya, another third in Sindarin, and the last in Westron. It was not very valuable in the way of gold and gems, but there is little enough Nõldoran art left on these shores and almost none of it has found its way into the common tongue so that makes it more valuable. Plus, Isíl notes, it was made by her own hand and she’s gleaned enough about dwarven culture to know that’s important in their courtship rituals. 

She makes a mental note to ask about the badger painting now, though, because she’s still sure that that had nothing to do with courtship and everything to do with Thorin Oakenshield’s odd sense of humor.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin was putting the finishing touches on the first courting gift he had made in his one-hundred-ninety-five years of life when Fíli entered his forge. Without looking up from the burnishing tool in his hand Thorin asked the most important question of the day.

“How fares your brother?” Thorin asked as he set aside the burnishing tool and picked up the item he was working on to turn it over in his hands and inspect it properly underneath one of the magnifying lenses mounted on the smallest of his work benches.

“Much better.” Though Thorin wasn’t looking at his heir he could hear the relieved smile in his voice. “Kíli’s been released from bed rest and Oín’s put him to work with Orí in the library.”

“By which you mean he’s sitting there reading through books of our warrior lore while Ori diligently works at returning it to some semblance of order.” Thorin chuckled and finally looked up, satisfied with the finished product. 

“Well…” Fíli paused long enough to look caught and Thorin smiled, standing up and laying one hand on his elder nephew’s shoulder. 

“He’s resting and after I speak with Ori he’ll also be learning much of the lore and history of our people you were both denied the opportunity to be tortured with properly in your youth anyway.” Thorin shook his head and pulled his gloves back on, walking over to check the heat of the small jewelry kiln in the corner. 

Finding it cooled, but not enough to open and check on his work, he shucked his gloves and tucked them into his heavy leather apron. There was no shame in dwarven royalty embracing the work of their people; indeed, there was much shame amongst Mahal’s children if their leaders had no such skills! The highest rewards for valar remained those works by the king’s hands and the King Under the Mountain had several such weapons and chains of office that needed his attention. Hearing of their king wearing some soot and a heavy forge apron when he was not moving amongst them would only reassure people that things were indeed going back to what they ought to be.

“Am I to take it that I’m going to join him in the classroom then, Uncle?” Fíli asked suspiciously and Thorin moved back to the delicate tools spread out over his fine work bench beside the gift he had been preparing without answering. 

“I can’t imagine you came down here just to report on your brother’s reading habits.” Thorin prodded. “What brings you here when, for once, we have a blessed lull in the repairs?”

“I have no idea what to make for Breena.” Fíli blurted out, standing awkwardly with his hands palm out towards his uncle and king. “I mean, first gifts are important, but we’ve barely met one another and I don’t want to be too forward and offend her!”

“Then there’s Bifur to consider.” Thorin added and when Fíli looked at him in helpless confusion Thorin sighed and explained. “Our companion just got his daughter back after decades of separation, Fíli. Not only will that make his time with her more precious, but it would make a whirlwind courtship insulting and threatening to his newly re-forged family.”

Fíli’s shoulders slumped and Thorin gestured to one of the iron stools he kept around his forge, and then took another for himself. 

“Relax, lad, that doesn’t mean you can’t do anything; it just means you can’t do it _quickly_ , or do it without talking to Bifur first.” Thorin thought about it and the way that Fíli paled at that suggestion. Bifur could be hard to understand and he did have a temper so if nothing else it said that Fíli’s sense of self-preservation was improving. “Let me talk to Bifur first, and then drop by one evening with some fresh game and a keg of ale. After you’ve done that a few times move on to some simple hair beads, but absolutely no combs yet and nothing ornate. Silver, not gold, and no gems.”

“And don’t look so surprised I’m giving you good advice.” Thorin added with a scowl. “Have you talked to Balin about this yet?”

“Yes, but he told me to just go with my heart and make sure whatever I made her suited her coloring.” Fíli complained and Thorin chuckled at the familiar mantra. 

“Well, he’s right.” Thorin added after a minute. “The latter is important.”

“I’m shocked that you’re telling _me_ not to be too forward when you’re making your elf maiden a _vanity_ set.” Fíli added, nodding toward’s Thorin’s courtship gift. “Not to mention such a complete one. I may not really be versed in courtly wooing, but I know better than to give a woman a comb and brush before she’s agreed to marry me!”

Thorin turned and looked over his gift. After seeing the pitiful thing she’d used to comb her hair during her stay he’d known what he was going to make her immediately. What he’d needed was the time to assemble it and the materials to complete it. Doing so in three days had been a stretch, but he’d managed it.

He’d chosen to make a set any dwarf woman would have burst with pride to have owned, and which befitted his status as the King Under the Mountain. None of Thranduíl’s folk would be able to say that he was giving her paltry gifts, or not giving Isíl her due because she’d been unfortunate enough to be born amongst the Eldar. So she had three brushes, one a long clothing brush, and two more oval handled brushes for her long pale hair. Four combs of varying fineness were added, as well as a handmirror and several delicately made jars and bottles carved from pale blue agate patterned with soft swirls of color and capped in the same silver all the other things were cast from. Every item was decorated with delicately worked, burnished gold to contrast with the polished silver of the pieces.

“True,” Thorin acknowledged, “but she doesn’t know that, does she?”

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

This time when Isíl arrived at Erebor she was met by the urbane older dwarf with the forked white beard, named Balin, who she’d interacted with before. He bowed deeply upon seeing her, she responded with an equivalent curtsey, and then he led her within the mountain. The accompanying small talk was nice, if a tad bit awkward. She didn’t know many of the dwarves he was speaking of, but she was genuinely upset to find that Kíli’s battle wounds had given him grief again. Thorin’s younger nephew was very bright and fun and young in ways that Isíl found refreshing. It was nice not to be the least experienced being in a room.

“The King may be a while on business, lassie, and he asked me to convey you in comfort to either his personal antechamber or to somewhere else you’d rather go, if there was such a place?” Balin offered once they’d gotten through the entranceways and switchbacks into the mountain city proper.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble I’d like to go to the Weaver’s Guild Hall again?” Isíl requested. “It had good lighting and I have something I can work on until his majesty is free.”

“Of course.” Balin smiled up at her in what she took to be approval – and dwarves were odd in their tests and what comprised them – and led her farther into the mountain towards their destination.

Glóin’s wife, Thël, was there with two of the older women, and they had the frame of one large floor-loom started, even if it was nowhere near complete. Thël greeted her and asked after the doings of the Elven kingdom with more irony than Balin had, but less political interest. 

“I couldn’t tell you, everyone’s avoiding me for some strange reason.” Isíl replied, primly, and gestured to one of the unoccupied stone benches. “Do you mind if I sit and work with you today, until the King calls for me?”

“Of course not, what are you working on?” Asked one of the older dwarven ladies and Isíl obligingly opened one of her saddle bags. 

She’d packed with the suspicion that she would be staying in the Lonely Mountain again, and as such she had several appropriate changes of clothing and a bit of her jewelry. Isíl had also brought some embroidery to work on, however. Pulling out her current project and the travel-sized leather sewing kit she had brought with her she showed her work to the other women. At the moment that meant a small, square embroidery hoop that she was using to hold a stout three-inch strip of heavy ribbon in place so she could do more intricate embroidery upon it and then sew the entire thing securely to the throats and hems of a heavier winter gown or tunic.

She expected it would probably be a tunic because she had begun to sew with the intention of it being a sinuous design in pale shades of green and yellow it had become a geometric thing heavy in stark black and white. Either way her work was suitably admired and she soon had a cushion to sit on; which was quickly transferred to the ground as it was more comfortable to simply sit cross-legged on the floor than sew with her knees underneath her armpits or her legs tucked awkwardly underneath the low dwarven bench. Within the hour she was happily immersed in a drawn out conversation about carding techniques and how they were best applied to various types of wool until she had entirely lost track of time.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin splashed water over his face and scowled fiercely down at the tunnel from which he had just immerged. The dwarrow whose daft idea it had been to get rid of dirty hay from mattresses by using it in his forge as tinder would have done better to stuff the dried grass between his ears to stop the wind from whistling through. Thorin didn’t care that the dwarf had no education; even a simpleton should have known that you didn’t leave _loose hay_ to blow around your forge should a draft come through the exhaust system!

“Well, on the plus side, the fire didn’t amount to much of anything beyond a lot of smoke.” Dwalin noted dryly as he kicked at a charred piece of furniture.

That was the truly annoying product of this example of idiocy in action, for the dwarrow in question had been sharing workspace with his brother, the carpenter and while the fire would have died anyway with nothing to fuel it but cold rock? They were still annoyingly short on furniture within the mountain and nearly everything the carpenter had completed had been lost in the brief, but hot, blaze. Thorin didn’t care that it was an infinitesimal setback compared to the progress his people were making; it was enough that it was a setback at all.

“Get the carpenter a new workspace,” Thorin grunted to the younger dwarf standing behind him, he was to be one of Balin’s new assistants, but Thorin couldn’t remember his name for the life of him. The lad was Broadbeam and his name had a whopping three syllables, though, so Thorin didn’t know why it kept slipping from his mind. “but first find out why he wasn’t housed with his guild in the first place. If it’s a stupid reason, resolve it and get him working in the proper area. If it’s something someone else needs to mediate, bring it back to me and I’ll decide who’ll do the mediating.” 

Of all of the things Thorin missed most about his grandfather’s reign, Thorin decided it was the preexisting organization. Without the Guilds fully established the courts and bureaucracy weren’t up to snuff. Without the courts up to snuff Thorin found himself sorting everything from minor disputes to major problems out himself, or at least taking the time to refer it to the proper channels. It’s doubling and tripling what his workload should be and having given Fíli the day off to court and having Kíli on light duty there was only so much Thorin could pass into Dís’ capable hands. Right now he’d already passed her the logistics of Household Management for the entire mountain, and Mahal himself knew that that was enough work to bury any dwarrrow-woman alive, even one as capable as his sister.

As it was Thorin had just had time to walk back to his quarters, strip out of one set of soiled clothing, and wash, before he was needed for ten other things again, only five of which he should have had to deal with. Pulling on heavy black buckskin breeches embossed with the heavy geometric work his people favored, Then a clean white woolen tunic with long sleeves went on next to his skin, followed by a dark blue tunic to the knees woven from some of the material Isíl had first given him. The stuff was worked all through with a pattern of thorny brambles he liked. Over that went the short-sleeved quilted padding he wore underneath his mail, and his mail shirt. 

Two open shirts went over that, both knee-length like his mail, and both open in front as was his want. The first was a fine, but plain wool in a middle-blue edged all around in Dís’ bold embroidery in silver and black. The second was a black leather shirt of the same make as his breeches. He pulled a new overcoat over it all, again in his own dark blue and with a fresher gray fox fur collar and border than the last. He put on his usual two pairs of socks, stamped into his boots, and gauntlets, weapons, and the heavy golden belt of his father’s he’d found amongst the treasure finished it. 

Or mostly finished it, almost as an afterthought, considering he was entering the throne room for official business, Thorin slid the remade crown of Erebor onto his head and straightened his hair underneath it. Though he wanted to go get the gift he had for Isíl and track the elf maiden down he had other duties to attend to, and if being an elf came with no other advantages, it certainly meant that she had all the time in the world to spend waiting on him.

Going back to the throne room, with the Arkenstone shining above him, Thorin sat down to begin sorting through what promised to be a long afternoon of harassment in the form of two duels fought over someone’s wife’s second-cousin’s honor, a dispute over a Guild-Merging, and another protest over the fact that he’d ordered all fees required to join a Guild – not the dues, just the entry fees – for the next three years or when Erebor’s population reached ten thousand. By the time he’d gotten done it was close to nightfall outside Erebor’s walls, the instigator of the whole dueling mess was ordered back to the Iron Hills where he could be Daín’s problem rather than Thorin’s, and the master of the Healer’s Guild had ended up with a black eye and fat lip when Oín lost his temper with the stuffy older dwarrow. Thorin had actually enjoyed watching that last bit, and while he wasn’t going to micromanage the guilds, he’d made it clear that if the tension within the Healer’s Guild wasn’t quickly dealt with it would have a new master and they would be chosen at the King’s Pleasure.

One bright spot – other than Oín’s well-landed punch – was that he had finally had a chance to meet Bifur’s daughter. One look and he had to admit that Fíli’s bewitchment was unsurprising. Breena, daughter of Bifur, was a beauty who, in a few years, would be quite on par with Glóin’s wife. Raven dark hair topped her head in three thick braids she’d coiled into a line of knots from the crown of her head backwards to her nape, and Bifur had crowned her with white gold and aquamarine hair combs shaped like delicate bat wings. Chains studded with the same gems ran from the combs up into her hair and jangled merrily as she moved, and she wore a fine golden chain around her neck, and rings on her fingers that Thorin recognized from Bifur’s reward after the quest. 

Matching beads of both silver and gold were woven into a short, but very well-kept black beard, just long enough for braiding her mustache up into her sideburns, and Mahal had seen fit to grace her with eyes as brown as agates. Add to that a rather fantastic, generous figure, and the broad shoulders and hands of a miner’s daughter and you had a vision of dwarven loveliness before you that was hard to beat. 

The girl had shyly approached him after he’d dismissed the court session and he’d recognized her immediately from her dark hair and the dimples she shared with her father’s cousin. He’d regretfully turned down her offer to join her family in supper. The boar that Fíli had provided promised to roast well, she’d said, and it had been years since he’d had good roast boar. He suggested she offer his younger sister-son the place she had offered him and noted that Bifur’s delight over the idea of having his daughter become the future queen of Erebor – but only after a _long_ courtship – was more of a relief that it had been even earlier in the day.

Breena had a nice, beaky nose too. With Fili’s proper dwarven profile and her looks perhaps the line of Durin would actually produce its first handsome prince since Thrain in the next twenty or thirty years! Given Bifur’s attitude, he noted, probably closer to thirty.

With that in mind, however, he went to find his intended and claim her for the evening.

SSSSSSSSSS

Isíl would have liked to have said that her people never lost track of time, but if there was any crime that elven kind was guilty of it was probably that. She’d been enjoying working with the Weaver’s Guild of Erebor greatly since her arrival, and discussing technique. So far she’d found that dwarves certainly loved lace well, or at least their women did for edging and making underthings, but that they only made it with knitting needles. Oh, some of their knitted lace was lovely, but there were so many more styles, and Isíl had found herself engaged in a tutorial with the most dedicated students she’d ever met. 

Unlike Tari and some of the other women of the Greenwood the dwarven ladies were deeply focused. They didn’t have time to put their craft lessons off for another day, or the knowledge that they could learn at whatever pace they chose, and even if they had Isíl did not believe they would have adopted that approach. Instead she found herself assembling a hard, cylindrical pillow for each woman’s lap, and dividing and passing around her bobbins so that everyone had a few to work with. 

She’d started with a simple lace ribbon pattern with a very easy geometry of knots and interweaving, and was pleased when all of the dwarrow women quickly understood the technique. If none of them were producing the perfect product, the first time, no-one did, and they certainly had great focus. Nir, the eldest of the dwarves showed a definite talent for it, and Thël seemed to take the difficulty she was having getting the knots evenly tight as a personal insult. 

“We can work on needlepoint lace in a few weeks, after you’ve gotten the technique for this down.” Isíl told the ladies as she moved her lace farther up her pillow, letting the two yards she’d completed today loop and then rest on the knee of her breeches as she repined everything in place and started on the next few inches of the simple pattern. 

The truth was that she could have tatted such lace in her sleep, and once she’d gotten the other woman confident in the technique she’d stopped slowing her work down so that they could watch unless asked. She hadn’t meant to impress them in any way, or seem immodest, but after Nir and Nandi – for the older dwarven master weavers were sisters it seemed – had asked a few very direct questions she’d given a more complete account of her study.

“I’m accounted very talented even amongst much more experienced weavers amongst my kind.” Isíl acknowledged. “You’ll find that Lady Galadriel is far more accomplished, and some three others in her household, but they have had thousands of years to perfect their craft and studied under greater masters in younger days. The lady told me that with a thousand years to polish my technique I’d be nearly unequaled.”

Isíl had not been raised to proclaim her own merits. Amongst the Nõldor it was more acceptable to brag about one’s craft than the Sindar, but it still remained something you allowed others to do for you. Besides, she’d spent most of her life amongst the Sindar as there were few of full Nõldoran blood like her father left on Middle Earth, and it remained very rude amongst those who had never journeyed to the Undying Lands to sit around and talk about your own merits as if they were better than another’s. It provoked ill feelings and the Sindar and Silvan peoples went to a lot of trouble to avoid that amongst their own kind.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thël was more than slightly amused by the young elf maiden, but also liked her better for this afternoon of good hard work. She’d expected an elven weaver to be more lackadaisical about their craft; they certainly had the time for it. She hadn’t gone so far as to suspect, like the Nn Sisters, that elven weavers had stockpiled their wears for ages and what they sold to the dwarves was simply drawn out of that great store rather than newly made, but she definitely hadn’t expected to strain her eyes to simply see the Lady Isíl’s hands move as she wove her thin ribbon of lace. 

Then again, while she might have been accounted a youth amongst her people eighty years of study amongst a great master would render _any_ dwarven student reckoned grand.

“I think she’s just got a better work ethic than the rest of the lot.” Thël told her husband as she set aside her lace pillow and the bobbins that she’d been gifted with carefully, freeing one and bringing it over to the light of the lamps at his work table in their quarters. “Do you think you could make me a set of maybe forty of these out of good copper? I’d work better with them if they had a bit more heft, I think, but I don’t want a heavy metal.”

“Aye, of course my love, as many as you want.” The heavily bearded warrior stood from his table, putting aside a weapon’s sketch and reaching out to rub a hand over her swollen stomach as he rose. “Are you feeling entirely well? Don’t you think you ought to-.”

“Tell me to sit or lay down, Glóin, son of Gróin, and I shall lay you out with a much needed knock to that hard skull of yours.” Thël threatened, waving a mallet from his own workbench at him. “Is Gimli still down at the forge, then?”

“No, I gave him to Oín today as punishment for smarting off earlier.” Glóin snorted. “Making him watch simmering pots that stink like sunbaked hog intestines will do him a world of good.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on the lad.” Thël laughed. “That’s my job when he’s shirty like that! The poor boy’s just sore he didn’t get to go on the quest too.”

“Aye, and with what the battle nearly took from us I for one am still very grateful that Thorin put his foot down about taking none younger than Kíli.” Glóin shuddered and slowly shook his head, reaching up to stroke his beard, and then run his fingers gently through his wife’s silky auburn hair and beard. “You didn’t see them, love. Kíli was wearing his guts half on the outside and his shin was in three pieces, and poking out of the flesh in two of them. Fíli took two arrows and he had a broken sword to the gut, and I think Thorin looked more like one of your pincushions than anything else, forgetting the pike he’d been run through with.”

“I didn’t say he should have gone, I’d have skinned you _and_ our king if you’d thought to allow that kind of stupidity.” Thël matched his shiver and leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead. “I just said that you can’t punish a boy for wanting to be brave. Give him something else to _do_ for a bit. Put him to his craft, yes, but maybe see if you can’t get the huntmaster to send him out a bit more, or have Dwalin put him with the lighter patrols outside the mountain.”

“Nothing too dangerous, just enough for him to burn off some of that brimstone.” Glóin beamed at his wife. “You’re a brilliant as you are beautiful, my love.”

“And you’re just now noticing it, then?” Thël huffed and got up off of his lap, pushing the bobbin back into his hand and going over to the large fireplace and the simple oven built within it to prepare their dinner. “I take it our son won’t be home for dinner, then?”

“No, no he will not.” Grinning, Glóin put the bobbin down again and went to rub his wife’s back. “Tell me more about your guild and our king’s elf maiden. You like her then?”

“Oh, she’s too _young_ to hate.” Thël waved a knife as she began to put together a hearty stew. “She’s honest enough and she’s willing to share her trade with us, and that’s no small thing.”

Glóin nodded his agreement, for craft secrets were sacred amongst all races in different measures, and while he doubted that the elf maiden was giving up anything the elves considered special, it had been since the fall of Khazad-dûm and Eregion since they had freely traded skills. While he was in no hurry to rebirth the alliance with Thranduíl after so many betrayals, he admired his king for not outwardly alienating the elf politically. If dark times came, as they often did when you least expected them, then there would at least be the option of an alliance of convenience. Besides, it was an entirely different thing in subverting one elf than trusting a whole lot of them.

“So you say she’s young and impressionable?” Glóin grinned.

“And lonely.” Thël chuckled, and then frowned. “Now that I’ve met the lass, though, I’d hate to see her ill-used before she’s had the time to become as useless as the rest of her race. Our king _is_ serious for some reasons of fondness, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s found his match alright. I drug the details out of Kíli while my brother had him on those herbs that make you see fish with feet and flying boars.” Glóin grinned broadly and accepted the dough his wife passed him to fashion into sheets of flat bread to shove into the oven for a quick bake. 

“Oín would have skinned you alive for that if he caught you.”

“That’s why I waited until he had his back turned and his new ear trumpet set by his mortar.” Glóin chuckled and caught his wife’s hand to drop a kiss on her rings as she aimed a swat at his head in retaliation for his behavior. 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin found his future wife still in the riding clothes she’d worn while hunting and presumably riding to Erebor from the forest that morning. In fact, he found her still in that clothing, sitting cross legged on the floor on a worn cushion, instructing his people on the art of some kind of lace making his people had no experience in. The King in him noted that any kind of new craft was a valuable commodity and lace that they did not trade Men or Elves for was one more way to keep their gold inside their mountain. The male in him noted smugly that this was one more way to draw her nearer to _him_ through his people. 

Her hair was still down, though, and as untended as any maiden of dwarrow-kind advertising her readiness to wed. The pale, straight fall of hair went down halfway to her knees and Thorin’s fingers itched to get into the fine, thick fall of it and twist into braids and knots claiming her as his own. He’d make her ornaments of moonstone and diamond, and golden flowers for her hair. He’d craft a crown delicate enough for her slender neck to support, but of _dwarven_ with the symbols of his line on it. He’d clasp her wrists in bracelets and load her slender rings in fingers until no-one could doubt whose life and bed she shared.

Thorin told his loins to save their stirring for when he was alone in his bed and could ease it and made his way over to her, through the Weaver’s Hall, as she rose and curtseyed. He bowed in return and claimed her hand for a kiss. Thorin also kept his eyes focused firmly on Isíl when that very forward gesture for the level of courtship they were actually in drew the two dwarrrow matrons in the hall’s attention and at least one slightly ireful look. 

On one hand he was pleased that there seemed to be some fondness and protectiveness of Isíl in that look. On the other he was obviously going to have to take advantage of her ignorance less when there were females of his own kind present. The older generation of the males of his race seemed to mostly take his courtship in stride and would probably continue to do so as long as her acceptance proved a bandage for the pride lost over the ages as dwarven affection was never returned by the elf maidens they pined for. Dwarven _women_ of a certain age, however, were notorious sticklers for the propriety of a proper courtship and the last thing he needed was one of them sitting Isíl down for a long talk about the various expectations she should have.

“Your Majesty, I hope your day went well?” She offered politely and Thorin nodded, torn between annoyance at the return to the formality he’d gotten her to leave behind for a while when they last spoke and appreciation of her use of his titles around his people.

“It went, well has yet to be seen as it is not over.” Thorin replied, letting her hand fall under what was now the concentrated observation of two dwarrow matrons. “I’ve come to bring you to dinner at my table, and apologize for my lateness.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Isíl smiled at him, just slightly, but it was genuine. “I’ve enjoyed myself greatly, and have to thank your people for receiving me so kindly here.”

“Crafts are meant to be shared between the crafters.” Nandi replied, waving one age-ravaged hand. “Think nothing of it, girlie, and come back again soon. It’s been too long since I worked a beginner’s pattern in anything and my pride will hurt if I don’t get beyond it before that young wisp of a thing Glóin married!”

“I will.” Isíl agreed, and turned back to Thorin, scooping up her saddle bags before he could. “If there is time I would like to wash and change for dinner; time got away from me, I’m afraid.” 

“Better that it got away from you than having been caught by it.” Thorin snorted. “I held an impromptu court today that turned into a madhouse.”

“That must have been interesting.” 

Thorin gave her an arch look and she offered him a guilty smile in return for her curiosity at his annoyance.

“The closest thing I’ve seen to a real dispute in court is after you and your companions vanished from the King’s dungeons.” Isíl offered sheepishly. “He was yelling and the Butler and the Captain of the Guard were held up before him to testify and other guards and the other elves caught in the middle of it were scurrying around like ants caught in the rain.”

Thorin grinned at the mental image of elves _scurrying_ as he led her towards the Royal Wing. 

“And?” He prompted, and then cleared his throat and gave her a Look when it appeared she wasn’t going to add anything else, enjoying the small, guilty smile she gave him before going on immensely. His corruption was taking root nicely, wasn’t it?

“It was just awful.” Isíl acknowledged. “The Butler was claiming someone had drugged the wine – which was just not true – and the Captain of the Guard just kept holding his ring of keys aloft and claiming dark magic. Then one of his underlings who was in charge of searching your men brought up that he’d found an elaborate set of lock-picks.”

“Ah, Nori wanted to mention that that was never returned to him.” Thorin added calmly and got a glare that poorly hid her amusement at his interruption.

“I’ll bring it up with the Captain of the Guard.” Isíl replied. “Anyway, when the lock-picks were mentioned the King demanded to know how thoroughly you’d all been searched.”

“Thoroughly enough, and with little enough dignity.” Thorin growled, recalling the humiliation of being stripped by a gang of laughing elves. 

“Well, it could have been worse, judging from the argument that followed between three of the lesser guards about what accounted for dishonorable behavior and acceptable precautions.” Isíl shrugged apologetically. “Either way we _do_ have standards, you know. You were not starved, nor were any of the suggestions put forth by the guard arguing for more invasive searching well received by even the king. He ended up on punishment detail.”

“What does this punishment detail entail for an elf?” Thorin grunted, annoyed that he’d let the conversation take a turn that had angered him when he had not brought Isíl here today to dig at old grievances and debts. What the elves owed him he would take from Thranduíl in peace of mind and Isíl in shared happiness.

“He was demoted to menial cleaning duties inside the palace for one hundred days and forbidden sun, moon, and starlight until he could fully explain the dishonor of his suggested actions to the King’s son.” Isíl answered promptly enough, then paused, and offered. “He will serve his full sentence without light, I think, for Legolas is a very decent elf.”

_That_ did not please Thorin. For while it did not require hate to destroy a courtship – disinterest was just as stout a motive – he would definitely prefer something at least as strong as dislike to be what Isíl felt for the elven prince who had also wanted her. He was aware what kind of knife’s edge he walked with this courtship, and how Isíl’s youth and race stacked this deck against him. Moreover, what dwarf ever wanted to hear their match speak even somewhat fondly of another male who lusted for them? None, Thorin could tell you, none. 

“Then he has already exceeded his father.” Thorin grunted, and then, safely in the royal corridors and out of sight of his people, he took her hand and drew it into the crook of his arm, noting in annoyance that this was slightly awkward when the female in question was more than a foot taller than you were. “I have no desire to speak of politics, though, and I have a gift for you after we have eaten. Here is your room.”

“Thank you, Thorin.” Isíl smiled at him and then paused before slipping into the room. “I heard your younger nephew was injured. Is Kíli well?”

“He’ll be entirely mended in a fortnight.” Thorin replied, grateful for the change of topic and the very fact that it was true. “And before that I’m sure he could be tempted into regaling you with more tales of our journey whose dubious accuracy I’ll have to correct later.”

Listening to her giggle as she bowed her pale, golden head and then slipped the door closed Thorin paused, waited for the lock to click, and then chuckled to himself as he realized the elf maiden still hadn’t figured out how to work dwarven locks.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Isíl had her pride as a master of fiber-craft, and her share of it as a maiden as well and she’d planned the clothing she’d brought with her accordingly. She was a little disappointed that she had not thought to mind the time better and change and freshen up before Thorin arrived at the Weavers’ Hall, but what was done was done. Quickly drawing a bath and tidying up Isíl kept her hair out of the way with a pain kerchief and then dried off and scurried back to dress.

She’d finished enough of the mottled cream-colored cloth patterned through with golden mallorn leaves to make a proper gown out of it. It was heavy enough to be worn in winter, but only as one of at least two layers. This was, in truth, all the better, for that is how she planned to wear it. She’d chosen to wear a translucent dark golden shift underneath it with tight sleeves that went down all the way to her knuckles and had a slit for her thumb to pass through and tiny knotted thread buttons up the side to make the sleeves mold to her arms. 

Elven small clothes were brief and required little structure beyond a slight binding at the breasts to keep Isíl’s slightly less graceful Nõldoran upper curves under control. The breast band was just that; a band of firm cloth wide enough to cover all but the top of her cleavage with two thin shoulder straps and laces up the back, and her lower small clothes were the usual sculpted triangles joined together at the base and then tied at each side with ribbon. As Isíl liked all of her clothing to be pretty her small clothes were made of peach colored satin and covered in a spiderweb thin layer of white lace. Looking at the way her body and underthings were easily visible through the drape of the translucent chemise Isíl wondered wickedly what the dwarven king would do if she showed up in only this and claimed it was elven courting tradition. It would serve him right for kissing her without permission last time!

Isíl didn’t really consider doing it, though. First of all, she lacked the nerve, and second of all if the opposite party enjoyed it then it didn’t count as punishment. The gown she slid over the chemise was longer than the calf-length chemise, and had a short train. She’d made it out of the cream colored material mottled with golden mallorn leaves she’d stayed up nights to weave over the last few days, and added a row of larger knotted buttons up the back of it to make it mold to the line of her body the way that dwarven dresses seemed to. Then, rather than bell or leave shaped sleeves, she left the sleeves tube shaped and made them long enough to drape past her knees before slitting them halfway up the bicep. There she used thick bands of golden embroidery shaped like twisting vines and accented with tiny glittering beads to mark the change from proper sleeve to flowing accent. She left the collar the usual round collar, but put embroidery along it and the hem of the gown. 

Isíl topped the gown with a sideless surcoat in deep ocean blue velvet. Silver embroidery edged the slightly lower neckline daintily as well as bordering both open sides. Putting on the amber, gold and silver coronet she favored, a necklace of gold and amber beads, and stepping into a pair of dark blue leather slippers after pulling on translucent white stockings finished her for the evening, and Isíl surveyed her appearance in the startling, gilt-framed mirror that had made its way into her quarters. The thing was fully a meter taller than even she needed to see her full reflection and she noted that dwarves really didn’t do things by halves as she picked up the delicate silk wrapped package that was her courting gift and went to meet her…. Well, she went to meet Thorin.

Instead she all but ran over the tiniest being she had ever seen in her life. Isíl’s left hand flew to her lips and she looked down at the figure sitting, sniffling at her feet. It was a dwarf-child, and though Isíl had seen no truly young elflings since being one herself, she would have been gold that this was a particularly young one as well. For there was no soft fuzz on the tiny figure’s cheeks, and the loose ginger curls that fell about its little shoulder – no, wait, _her_ little shoulders. 

For the tiny, crying, figure sitting in the middle of the hallway in the royal quarters of Erebor was definitely wearing skirts. In fact she was wearing the most adorable little set of skirts she’d ever seen, with a little white blouse streaked with soot on one sleeve white sleeve, and a two layered green and red jumper that buttoned at each shoulder and had the white lace ruffles of a petticoat sticking out from underneath. Then her feet were clad in bright red stockings embroidered with colorful flowers and little shiny black boots covered her sturdy little feet. Big toffee brown eyes turned up to take in Isíl’s own appearance and widened in sudden fear at being presented with what Isíl was sure looked like some strange, spindly giant to the little dwarfling. 

“Now, little one, what’s wrong?” Isíl quickly crouched down, spreading her skirts as she did so, and hopefully making herself less intimidating.

The little lower lip wobbled and an internal debate was commenced before the child gave an almighty sniffle and answered.

“I am _not_ short!” The little girl burst out. “I am not either!”

“Of course not,” Isíl knew very little of children, but when someone was crying it was never a good idea to start an argument with them. “you seem like a fine height for a young dwarf your age.”

The little girl’s head bobbed up and she blinked once, and then, apparently decided she’d found an ally because she heaved herself to her feet and threw herself into Isíl’s arms. That definitely startled Isíl, but after everything that had happened in the last few months being startled was becoming very common place. Slipping a handkerchief out of the top of her sleeve and noting that dwarves apparently never carried the things and thusly supplying herself with her next idea for proper – practical! – gifts to give Thorin, she wiped the little girl’s face. 

“You’re an elf, so you’d know if someone was tall, right?” The little girl asked, then considered this and frowned. “Unless, are you short for an elf?”

“I am very tall for an elf maiden.” Isíl supplied, and put on as tragic as face as she could manage with something as adorable as this little creature staring up at her. “In fact, I was so much taller than many of the other elf maidens I knew where I grew up that they used to tease me for it.”

The little girl looked absolutely scandalized by that idea.

“What did you _do_?” She asked Isíl hopefully, dimples sprouting on each cheek and serving to make her even more adorable.

“Generally I looked down my long Nõldoran nose, from my tall Nõldoran height, at them.” Isíl didn’t bother to hold back her smile now.

“Oh, that won’t work.” The little girl lamented, her expression crumbling. “My brothers and sisters are all taller than me.”

“Ah, well, there’s a way to fix that, but first I have a question.” Isíl prompted even as she heard a somewhat frantic conversation featuring several familiar dwarven voices and several unfamiliar ones all overlapping until Thorin’s voice silenced them with a command. “Why are you crying in the hallway here?”

“I runned away.” The little girl supplied helpfully, then her lip began to wobble again. “Then I got lost and tired. The tunnels are _bigger_ here than at home. I wanna go home. How do you fix being short?”

“Like this.” Isíl reached down and slowly and gently gathered the little girl up under the armpits, swept her own hair over one shoulder and out of the way, and deposited the little girl on her shoulders to perch there, well above the head of any dwarf in Erebor. “There, now you can look down your nose at everyone to your heart’s content.”

SSSSSSSSSSSS

Thorin was thanking Bombur for personally preparing the meal that he would use to court Isíl – again – when Fíli, Kíli, Bofur, Bifur, Breena, Bombur’s wife, and the four oldest of Bombor’s children pelted up to his door at a dead run. On one hand, Kíli arrived at the door first, which was a good sign both for the healing of his injury and for his improved use of his prosthetic. On the other hand this was _not_ part of his plans for the evening. 

“Bombur, Kís is _missing_!” Kleve, Bombur’s small, slender, delicate wife – who had defied the very laws of dwarven nature by not only surviving child birth but by producing a completely unheard of _fourteen_ children – all but wailed, even as she dropped into a courtesy in Thorin’s vague direction. 

Thorin was out the door, trying to sort out a proper chain of events leading up to the tiny dwarrow girl’s disappearance, while ordering the guards to scramble and call a search for the child into being, and simultaneously decipher some kind of information from the mess that was Kleve’s sobbing, and Bombur’s panic. He’d just called for silence so he could do so when two things happened at once; first one of Bombur’s son’s cracked like an egg and wailed that it was all his fault, the second was Isíl gliding silently around the corner with the missing child sitting merrily atop her head clutching one of Isíl’s handkerchiefs in one chubby hand.

Little Kís, named in honor of her mother and Thorin’s own sister, responded by sitting up that much straighter and glaring downwards at her brothers before announcing:

“Now, who’s short you big meanies?!” In the general silence that followed the little girl looked down at the elf maiden she was perched upon like a human circus performer’s stilts and whispered, loudly, “Am I doing it right?”

“Put your shoulder’s back and tilt your chin up and try not to make faces while you do it.” Isíl suggested helpfully, her blue eyes meeting Thorin’s as she very clearly mouthed in Westron, _“Look what I found!”_

Kís, in response, did just that; throwing her shoulder’s back and tilting her head up she sat upon the vision of elven beauty who was standing in front of Thorin, bewitching him, shoulder’s an managed to wipe just enough of the smug triumph from her face to make a very passable attempt at elven hauteur. 

“I _knew_ they did that on purpose!” Fíli and Kíli burst out and once and Thorin threw his head back and laughed in mingled relief and simple exasperation.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely commenters! I have now left a link to this story at the original prompt on the Hobbit Kink-meme! :D


End file.
